


A Touch From Fire

by Mystyrious



Series: Wildfire [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Denial of Feelings, Drama & Romance, Explicit eventually, First Love, Introspection, M/M, Self-Destruction, Trichotillomania
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 52,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5104520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystyrious/pseuds/Mystyrious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Tevinter's left arm was red from the shoulder down and the mage was licking at the blood, which didn’t seem to be flowing. The rest of Dorian’s body was pale and shuddering. He pulled glistening, red lips away from the bloodied arm, chanting in Tevene in a voice both lyrical and manic. The haunting sound sent shivers down Roycen’s spine. Dorian brought his arm to his mouth once more, oblivious to Roycen, entranced completely in... what else could this be but blood magic?</p>
<p>Roycen thought he might be sick as a swarm of emotions wrestled for dominance. Denial: He would never! Dorian despised blood magic. This was quickly shrouded in a blanket of doubt: Were the others right to mistrust him? Finally, there was only the aching throb of betrayal. He had trusted him...<br/>(Slow burner fic. Part one is pre-build in Haven, part two is all the action in Skyhold. Canon(ish) but with a hearty sprinkling of treacherous magic. Did I really make Dorian a blood mage? Read to find out!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Mud and Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOW PART OF THE 'WILDFIRE' SERIES, for those of you who subscribe/bookmark.

Mud

       The bound, kneeling boy of eleven years gradually opened his grey-green eyes. Tears that he would never taste drew gummy paths down his dirty, ashen cheeks. They plopped to sink into the bucket of thick, black mud before him.

       The blonde-haired, too-skinny, boy was raised on a crude wooden platform. The raw crunch of saws had woken him that morning long before the Crow Woman had come for him and threw a hessian sack over his head. Half-familiar voices hissed words. He was tainted. The Quell awaits. The word had been little more than something half-remembered from a night-tale to the boy, until it was happening to him. No one had told him what was coming - only that it would make him better. If he let it. Would make him normal, take the magic away. After the Quell, his mother would look at him and see her son again. 

                His breath felt hot beneath the rough sack. He tried his best to remember that the Quell was going to make him better. But it was impossible with the Crow Woman chanting in a gravelly voice. When the bag was removed, he could smell rotten meat in the Crow Woman’s breath all while she washed and scrubbed him cleaner than he had even been.

Although the Crow Woman stood before him now, he could no longer smell her breath. Nor could he hear the cawing of the mob who had flocked the platform to witness The Quell. The painful leaping of his own heart drowned their voices. The stinging grit in his vision saved him the agony of finding faces he recognised... had once trusted. Today, his entire village was a seething mass of shadow.

       The Quell reduced his world until there was only the Crow Woman’s fingers and the thick, black mud. His ordeal followed a pattern: Crow clawing in the bucket, the squelch of fingers at his lips. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow. Those same fingers pressing the knot at his throat if he was too slow. He forced himself to choke down the muck, jerking his head violently to avoid the Crow’s hands at his neck. Eventually the boy could not have said whether or where those gnarled fingers were touching him. His own hands trembled as if with fever, sending shocks throughout his body.

       The mud was eating him. Blackness caking his chin, cloying his mouth, filling, sucking, until there was room for nothing else.

        Beyond broken, the boy’s final thought was for the Quell to work, (it had to work!) before he blissfully blacked out. He never felt the snap of burning twine around his wrists, or the tingle of unnatural fire wreathing his fingertips. The fire freed him and the fire condemned him.

        When the boy woke in a dark, unfamiliar room, he knew that the Quell had failed.

                                                             ______________________________________________________________________________

Flame

      The Dieram Pretorium was a masterpiece of vault ceiling, opulent serpentstone and cold onyx.

      The olive-skinned mage was everything an Altus should be: seeping supremacy, decadently dressed and wearing a slim smile that rarely reached the eyes. If only he did not have to practically _dash_ across the Pretorium to keep up with the lithe-limbed man beside him. His mentor, Levus. The famed Inferno specialist who dyed his hair coloured every shade of flame. They were almost of a height, but the mage knew he would never match the ease of grace of his mentor. He raced lightly over glittering green serpents. His silk cloak brushed the minute diamond scales of the onyx columns he passed.

       He glanced at Levus, whose emotions were nearly always guarded. As now. The mage was simply happy to know that he had finally found a mentor who challenged him, inspired him. He could not suppress the small bubble of pride that erupted in his chest. Chosen for this.... an danis, in tollenis, the giving, the taking. The youngest to do so in the memory of house Pavus. The ritual was a rare occurrence between a mage and his mentor, but all the histories told of mages made all the more brilliant through the bond. He should know, having read every account he could wrap his fingers around.

       The mage's father sat straight-backed between the twin stone tables, his onyx eyes flickered in the firelight. The son dropped to the floor at his feet. His mentor only kneeled.

        “My son. Magister Levus,” His father spoke in a gravelly tone. “Let us not delay. You will find the tables are prepared.” If the father felt any pride at that moment, it was buried behind a mask of indifference.

       An danis, in tollenis was in mid flow. The mage and his mentor lay still on twin tables of cold stone. A tingling flush of unfamiliar magic was filling the mage to the brim. The magic was warm, brimming with power. After a time, he recognised the power coursing through his body for what it was – his mentor’s mana. It has his voice, his taste. He opened himself, trusting, hoping, even as the flood of the mentor’s magic threatened to overwhelm him. Imprints of Levus, the rare, crooked smile when he demonstrated flawless form, the crinkle in Levus' eyes, all of the happiest moments of his life were emblazoned on his mind. Although he had no control over his features, the mage on the stone table was smiling, his fingers quivering softly as he remembered the feel of lithe fingers in his hair. His mentor’s face was as still as the stone he lay upon.

      Enough. I will fix you, Dorian.

       In the space of a moment, the mage went from fulfilment to fear. His mind screamed danger. He thought he could smell blood. His blood? His mind shivered as an icy, yet familiar presence invaded the connection. He could only watch as the intense, beautiful eyes of his mentor collapsed into grey tatters, his mind was choking him with acrid smoke.

       New pictures slammed into his conscious, glossed in an tempting, shiny haze. Giggling, pouting lips, long lashes. A woman with dishevelled hair spoke the mage's name. The sound was full of promise, of things he'd never thought were important. He wanted her to say it again, and again, and...

        No. His tutor returned, his face full of thunder. No, he didn’t want... what did he want?

       Levus, he remembered too late, clinging to the name as if his life depended on it. Levus...

       The visions dissolved in a white flash which pulsed so intensely the mage feared he was blind. After what felt like hours, his sight had returned enough to form a grainy picture. Men in grey cloaks were flooding the Pretorium like ghosts.

       The mage was trembling at the foot of the stone table. Levus was shouting something at him as a swarm of hands grasped at the man. He did not hear the words.

       The mage squeezed his eyes closed. His hands wrapped around his knees in a death grip. When he felt the icy, yet familiar hand on his neck, he screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins... first thoughts?
> 
> Note that this flashback prologue is deliberately short. Following chapters will be longer and a touch more traditional.


	2. Always a Tevinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the journey through time at Redcliffe.

**Always a Tevinter**

            Roycen Trevelyan was pleased to see a steaming basin of water ready in his tent. He yanked the quilted blue velveteen tunic roughly over his shoulders. Three of the buttons which had been polished to perfection only that morning were now lost. The embroidered hem of a sleeve was badly singed. Josephine would be distraught, but Roycen found he cared even less than usual. He winced at the sight of his beaten body, knowing that his usual leathers would have served him much better. The rest of the gore-spattered formal wear was stripped without delay.

            Roycen attempted a stretch, only to be seized up by spasms in his lower back _–crack!_ Maker willing, that was something clicking back into place.

            It was a small bliss to be out of the clothes. Even before Magister Alexius’s trap had sprung, he had felt restricted in Josephine’s choice of formal wear. He eased himself onto a stool, dabbing at streaks of bloody grime with a hot rag and avoiding the beginnings of the many bruises which would soon bloom in earnest.

       When he tried to recall what could have punctured the right side of his chest, the act of remembering was like pushing through setting treacle. Certain facts were clear. Just as Leliana suspected, Alexius’s invitation to Redcliffe was a trap. No one however, could have guessed that he and Alexius’s ‘associate’ Dorian, would be flung into a version of the future where Alexius had corrupted the mages, his advisors, seemingly the very world with red lyrium. There had definitely been rifts, which the anchor had dealt with swiftly enough.

            As for the rest of his memory, he suspected his mind of bridging gaps between the fragments. Dorian had warned that they may never fully remember their ordeal. _Time magic._ Just as he felt he had a grasp on a memory: _the twitch of his barrier about to fail, the incoming firespit of a rage demon..._ the image morphed. _Dorian Pavus – exuding confidence in the midst of battle - a barrier blistering into being where Roycen’s own had finally faltered..._ It was achingly difficult to continue focusing on the details.Yet he suspected his mind of bridging gaps between them. Roycen closed his eyes and focused intently on remembering:

            _Again, there was Dorian, shrouded in the vivid blue of a barrier, incinerating swathes of enemies where Roycen paralysed them with lightning magic. And again Dorian, arcing his staff in an elegant arc to glyph the stone at Roycen’s feet. Falling backwards a moment later, soaked in the obliterated demon’s blood._ Although the memories were distorted, there were too many flashes of the other mage’s untiring attacks and robust barriers for Roycen to believe he would have stood a chance on his own. _And what magic!_ When Roycen closed his eyes, he could still see hot white shapes where Dorian’s intense fires have branded his retinas. And of course, Roycen had relied on Dorian’s ability to open a portal back to the present. He realised he owed this fellow mage his life.

            Buried within the fog of memories were further confirmations of Dorian’s worth. Initially he had seemed self-concerned, arrogant even. Roycen was not in any hurry to place trust in a Tevinter mage who worked with Alexius. But if the flashes of memory were the truth, more than a handful of barriers had been hurled at his direction in the heat of battle. Dorian had collapsed into the present in as sorry a state than Roycen. Dorian could have protected himself more thoroughly... yet he chose not to. And Dorian had offered his services to the Inquisition before the blood had dried. Roycen knew that he should not have accepted his offer straight away. He was likely light-headed from mana depletion and blood loss. And Roycen’s rash acceptance would not prove popular.

            When Roycen felt he was as clean as he was ever going to get, he gently eased on his light leather armour. He hobbled his way to the command tent like a man thrice his age, using his knarlwood staff like a walking stick.

                       

* * *

            

            “Herald, did I mishear you?” asked the spymaster, Leliana.

            “You did not. The mage offered himself to our cause. I accepted.”

            “You did _what!?_ ” Seeker Casssandra’s ire whipped at Roycen, whose head was pounding from his horrific foray through time.

            Having rescued all three assembled, Cassandra, Cullen and Leliana, from the unforgiving alternate future which Magister Alexius had contrived, Roycen had expected less resistance. His fellow advisors did not remember the ordeal of course. The shadow of Alexius’s nightmare future would haunt he and Dorian alone. _Dorian_ _,_ it was only through his help that Roycen was here to stand before his companions. While Roycen held some value for his life, he did not know whether it was a blessing or a curse to have the hopes of Thedas pressed back onto his shoulders.The unrelenting burden of being the Herald, of guiding the fledgling Inquisition, weighed all the heavier now that he had seen first-hand what would happen should they fail. He would happily have ripped the anchor from his skin for someone else to bear this burden, if it were possible. Solas did not entertain the idea of trying.

            Cassandra’s prejudice grated on him, it was clear the Inquisition could not afford to spurn an ally, no matter their past. Heck, if he remembered correctly it was Cassandra who confiscated his staff and manhandled him into chains in the panic following the Breach, when Roycen himself was the prime suspect.

            As a twenty year old mage who had lived most of his life in a Circle, he had up until now hardly made a decision of any importance. This, despite being the face (and glowing hand) of the Inquisition. Typically he tended to keep back from the heated arguments which would erupt without warning amongst his advisors, preferring to listen and carefully formulate his opinion should it be sought.

            This time he braced himself to fight.

            Roycen’s grey-green eyes were as hard as iron, betraying his usual measured tone. “Cassandra, Dorian offered his services to the Inquisition unprompted. No one can deny he is an _excellent_ mage and as eager to see the breach closed as any of us.”

            Cassandra was unmoved. “I believe we have already acquired sufficient mages to attempt to seal the breach. Why take the risk with this Tevinter?”

            “His name is Dorian, of house Pavus,” Roycen informed.

            “An ancient line of Magisters, just like Alexius.” Cassandra reasoned. “We do not need more mages, just as we do not need further risk. Maker knows our path is treacherous enough.”

            It was true that the Inquisition’s need for mages was no longer what it was, now that the Redcliffe mages were theirs. As soon as their mages were assembled at Haven, the Inquisition would finally be in a position to tackle the Breach, with or without Dorian.

            Roycen took a moment to muse his response. “Tevinter mages are also well known for hoarding knowledge of magic forgotten elsewhere in Thedas. Even Solas cannot explain with certainty how the anchor works, whether the power can be replicated. Nor could Solas manipulate time. That has to be useful...” He noticed Leliana about to offer her say, but he was not finished. “And yes, the Tevinter are also better known for audaciously testing the boundaries of magic.” He admitted. “Yet we may need knowledge such as this. Who truly knows what manner of being the Elder One is, what he is capable of, how he might be defeated?”

            Leliana, the deceptively reserved spymaster reasoned softly. “We cannot ignore Alexius’s position as a Magister. While this Tevinter undoubtedly saw you back to the present day, Alexius is fled. We must consider that the Magister planned for this eventuality.” Cullen and Cassandra were hanging onto her every word. “This Pavus may be acting under orders to infiltrate our ranks.”

            The wide eyes of the ex-Templar commander, Cullen affirmed Roycen’s fears that this was three against one. “It would not be the first time an emerging force was brought low by false friends. I would not risk all that we have already achieved.”

            Roycen had prepared for a little opposition but now found himself wildly improvising. “Every one of our spies, soldiers, refugees carries risk. We have the resources to watch Dorian, to decide if he has untoward ties to homeland or Alexius. To refuse him in fear-" he looked to Cullen, “-is to squander knowledge which will otherwise be beyond us, which could lend us the vital edge!”

 _Maker help him._ Only Cullen looked in any way placated. Although the Inquisition was technically operating under shared command, Roycen was determined to have his way in this. It was time to play the ‘Andraste’ card.

            Raking his hand thickly through his hair, Roycen quietly confessed that he had felt Andraste’s will guide his decision, that it was the first time she had spoken to him. He hoped the quaver in his voice would pass for reverence and not lay bare the stinking lie he was dishing his colleagues.

            The blonde commander slackened and looked sheepishly to the others. Roycen’s being a mage had initially made the commander uneasy, yet Cullen now boasted proudly of the power of Roycen’s divinity to every new batch of saucer-eyed recruits.

_One..._

            Leliana inclined her head, eyes shadowed by her hood, unreadable. “Herald, if this is truly your will and that of _Andraste_.” Her voice tightened, “Have my assurance he will remain an _honoured guest_ until we return to Haven.” She glanced to Cassandra, “where the Tevinter will be questioned and his usefulness assessed.” Her tone left no room for negotiation.

 _Two, barely..._ He would have to ensure he was present during this ‘questioning’.

            Yet the Seeker was clearly not content. “I will choose a trusted few to take over the watch, for when I cannot make vigil personally. We may witness nothing. But remember, Trevelyan, he is _always a Tevinter_ , whatever else the man may appear. I suggest you do not drop your guard, for I will not.”

_Three._

_And mages will always have to break down the barriers of fear_. _Clearly some more than most._ He silently thanked the Maker that he had not had the misfortune to be born in the Tevinter Imperium, took leave of his colleagues and went to find the mage to whom he owed his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I interpret the Herald as a 20 year old surrounded by much more senior advisors and there has just been a betrayal by a Tevinter Magister, Dorian's integration into the Inquisition is more awkward than in-game.


	3. Questionable Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter, Dorian.

 

Questionable Taste

       In truth Dorian felt somewhat mis-sold. Dallying so closely with death played havoc with one’s judgement, clearly. Having come over tingly just watching the fascinating magic of the Herald’s anchor blast rift after rift to pieces, he of course offered his services to the Inquisition. The opportunity to study the ‘anchor’ was a good enough reason as any to tag along.

      Although truthfully, Dorian was also eager to simply be a part of something again.

      As liberating as it had been to finally be free of the treacherous snakes of his homeland, Dorian had not made any grand plans about what he was actually going to do with his freedom. In the months before Alexius contacted him and they set up in Redcliffe, Dorian found Himself stuck in a repetitive existence largely consisting inferior vintages and anonymous men. True, occasionally he could get his fingers on something imported, rather than what Southerners passed off as wine, but the bottom of the bottle always came too soon. As did the awkward partings, watching a man he knew better than to care about leave for the last time. Each morning he would wake alone and with no purpose to the day ahead.

      At his worst, Dorian woke up paralysed by despondency, dwelling on how he had come to live a life that was undeniably as empty as his bed. Those days, he took to drinking in his room and always made a point of riding for another town the next day.

       With the Herald of Andraste’s blessing, Dorian had assumed his integration into the Inquisition was a done deal... Apparently not.

       Judging from the drawn out faces of the Herald’s ‘advisors’ and the hushed conversation that followed, the Herald was not the Inquisition’s chief decision maker. Why the oh-so-holy needed permission from advisors he did not know. Perhaps it was to do with his age. The mage looked twenty, barely. Or perhaps despite the initial temptation, the man was not worth his time after all.

       Within one of many standard issue tents now shouldering Redcliffe, Dorian was carefully repacking his things when some lost drunkard proceeded to knock on the canvas of his tent. Thwump. Thump.

       What manner of impus knocks at a tent?

       “Speak, if you would delight in my presence,” the mage commented to his tent flap, hoping the nugskull would realise they had the wrong tent.

       He was mouthing his next witty remark when the Herald himself promptly poked his head through the flap. His shock of scruffy blonde hair was almost as dark as the canvas of the tent. He supported his slender frame with a twisted, hideous staff, the like of which would never be found in Tevinter. Southerners care so little for elegance.

           Now that the Herald was less than a metre away from him, he was acutely aware there was nowhere for him to sit and the man looked as if he dearly needed a rest.

           No, it was more than that. Dorian’s experience of the mage thus far was formed entirely in his formal wear. The embroidered velveteen which he happened to be wearing hadn’t looked all that mage-y but that was somewhat expected when running about for your life in a castle in the future. He also vaguely remembered a handsome red and gold sash. Lost in the future no doubt. A shame.

           The picture now before him, roguish young man, clad in a hotchpotch of lumpy leathers, a dagger on each hip... not a bit of it screamed mage extraordinaire or deity’s messenger. Even the staff which now rested against a barrel was at close inspection merely a battered knarlwood, with a whopping crack halfway down the shaft. Mercifully for the Herald, he was still rather fetching, even in this ghastly attire.

           It took a long moment to digest the conflictions of the Herald’s appearance, to the utterly embarrassing effect of completely missing out on his opening statement.

       “...So it seems I cannot offer you a guarantee as such, at this point. I would understand if you decide against continuing on to Haven.”

        _Kaffas_ , he wished he had heard the first part of that sentence.

       “So, you’re telling me my talents are... unwanted?” he probed.

       “More... unmeasured at this point. Grand Enchanter Fiona has agreed to send mages from all over the Hinterlands.” The Herald stated.

       Dorian exuded confidence, “I would naturally suggest an immediate demonstration to prove that I am worth a score of those half-trained apostates! Alas, the matter will have to sleep. Subverting time is an exhaustive business.”

       Trevelyan unconsciously bit his lower lip in disapproval. “I have seen what you can do. However, a demonstration of skill will not affect my colleagues’ suspicions, what with your being Tevinter and all—”

      _Oh, so it was like that._

       Dorian raised his hands in protest, beyond caring that interrupting the Herald was probably a minor treason in this Chantry-riddled camp. “No, let me guess. _One_ , I am a Tevinter spy. I will use my endearing charm to elicit the Inquisition’s juiciest secrets, only then will I transform myself into a bat and wing my way to the Imperium. Or  _t_ _wo_ , I am one of Tevinter’s most talented mages (which is actually true) and seek to corrupt the anointed Herald with, wait for it! Blooood magic.” He waggled his fingers menacingly. “Which is it?”

        The Herald’s wearied features suddenly crumpled into a grin which proclaimed his youth. The loss of composure suited the man. Dorian silently exulted in breaking it, if only for a moment.

        “Dorian, you do cast close to the mark. A lot of one, but if we are both honest it’s clear that _two_ would be the rumour that sticks.” The Herald twiddled his hands skittishly. Dorian noticed the man’s nails were bitten almost to bits. “Although if it’s any consolation, I for one do not doubt you. Like I said, I just can’t guarantee the others will be convinced by you.”

       Dorian suddenly lurched forward, both hands clutching his chest dramatically. The Herald fell for the ruse beautifully. His hands darted out instinctively to support Dorian around his middle. Dorian might have sunk into the grip, but instead straightened himself and revealed his ruse with a sly smile. “Me, unconvincing? Why Herald, you wound me! I can be most convincing.” The evidence of his convincing act was still apparent, as the Herald still had a light hold at his waist.

        _Interesting._  It was only a shame that the man was wearing ghastly leather half gloves.

       The Herald finally realised he was still holding on to Dorian, and removed his hands carefully, where most would have snatched their fingers away as if burnt. Dorian waited for the disapproving comment, knowing that it had been completely worth it.

       “By the Maker, Dorian! Don't do that again," the man shoved Dorian bodily, "and don’t call me ‘Herald’,” he added. Dorian was uncharacteristically speechless.“It is the Chantry who sparked that fire, and now even those who have never recited the Chant of Light in their life are calling me nothing else. Roycen Trevelyan, it was a perfectly good name before. More than good enough for the mage that saved my skin, I think. Even if you are a worse practical joker than Sera!” The Herald - no - Trevelyan, poked Dorian in the ribs.

       “ _Trevelyan_ ,” It was a name that rolled deliciously off the tongue. Dorian felt a rushing urge to make the man smile again. “Well my dear Trevelyan, I know your struggle well. Tevinter do love their superfluous titles: try _Puer Summum Anima Ignis Saltator._ At Least ‘Herald’ is concise.

       “Purr salmon...? Ignis! I know that one.” Dorian was rewarded with a small smile from Trevelyan. “ _Ignis_ is fire, for your Inferno specialism.”

       "I'm so glad you noticed." Dorian purred.

       "It was hard not to." Roycen admitted, shuffling the weight between his feet.

       It turned out that Trevelyan knew very few other words in Tevene. The Ostwick Circle did not see fit to teach modern Tevene, but could not ignore studying the archaic form of the language used in wards and glyph casting. Dorian’s earned title, Summum Anima Ignis Saltator would take too long to explain, no matter how many ridiculous guesses Trevelyan made. Instead they enjoyed a conversation on the best types of runes for locking doors. Dorian was surprised that Trevelyan could speak so animatedly o the subject despite his physical exhaustion. When the threads of conversation became ever more difficult to grasp, they saw that night had fallen. They were both in dire need of rest.

           Dorian would have paid a foolish amount of silver for an actual bed. A pallet and cloth stuffed mattress would have to make do.

       Long after the fellow mage had departed, Dorian found himself recalling the moment with Trevelyans’s hands at his hips. Of course, the action meant nothing. The man was simply fooled by Dorian’s ruse, believing that he was in danger of falling. But that did not stop Dorian from taking delight in Trevelyan's reaction. It was not all about his hands. The man’s stormy green eyes had flashed white with shock like a startled halla. It was most endearing.

       Before long Dorian found himself imagining other ways in which he could elicit a similar reaction from Trevelyan. The thoughts started innocently enough. But by the time wolves could be heard laying claim to the wilds, Dorian had re-invented the brief touch of Trevelyan’s fingers and startled expression in half a dozen new ways, all without those criminal half gloves. In his imaginings, his nails were not bitten to Oblivion either.

       Dorian’s mental embellishments had the effect of pouring oil on a flame, until he was simmering with appetising visions ranging from sweet seduction to cruel corruption:

      _Trevelyan. His decadent robes a deep green to compliment his eyes. His pale hands extend over the dancing flames of the camp fire. Dorian breathes a sultry suggestion in his ear, “There are better ways to get warm.” The delicious flush of Trevelyan’s cheeks._

_Trevelyan. Dressed in nothing but dark lust. Clean skin heady with the scent of leather and something crisp, like pulled grass. Tangling fingers into loose, golden curls. Trevelyan. His fingertips tracing circles of pleasure on Dorian’s dark skin. Trevelyan. Whispered touches over Dorian’s shoulder blades, a firm grip on his waist. Kisses that taste like addiction._

_Trevelyan..._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Smalltalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning - minor descriptions of violence.

**Smalltalk**

        “It is a wonder that people choose to reside in this gnat-infested backcountry.” Dorian remarked to no one in particular. Only the Seeker Cassandra and the mage Trevelyan were close enough to hear and neither thought it worthwhile to respond. He had so far spent the entirety of the first of their two day ride to Haven wedged between them. He suspected it was Cassandra’s notion to keep ‘the Tevinter’ close for safe keeping. She rode a grouchy grey stallion although the horse was as sweet as a baby nug compared to Cassandra herself. The Seeker’s face set into a sour scowl whenever Dorian caught her attention. The mage further fuelled this contempt with his relentless supply of sarcasm.

        The journey to Haven should have been uneventful but the rough and ready mix of Inquisition soldiers and the newly acquired Redcliffe mages shared an obvious distaste for one another. There had been a handful of incidents even before the company were mounted. One such incident involved a Chantry enthusiast who thought it would be a grand idea to search a chest of books the mages had packed for evidence that the group participated in blood magic. When he opened a warded personal journal, he had the combined misfortune of having a hand set alight and losing control of his upper limbs. It was only by chance that the mages’ storage wagon did not catch. The offender should be leagues behind the front riders now, having been commanded to walk to Haven by a seething Leliana.

        While Trevelyan put up a front to shield his concern and assured that things would be a great deal easier in Haven, his repetitions were not fooling Dorian. Although he wouldn’t admit it, he was grateful enough for their riding arrangements. It was an unspoken truth that there were individuals in their procession with more than a distaste for Dorian and what they _believed_ he represented.

        With little else to do as his mount trotted beside Trevelyan’s, he thought to get to know better the young, scruffy mage with sapless dress sense. Perhaps all that leather was enchanted? One could only hope.

        “Herald, might you indulge a fellow academic for a moment?” Although he preferred Trevelyan, it made more sense for Dorian to show the utmost of respect while in earshot of Cassandra.

        “I’m all ears, Dorian.” It was hard to tell. His wavy hair was obscuring both of his ears as usual.

        “As I understand it, you spent much of your adolescence in the Ostwick Circle, that is until Ostwick... was, uhm...”

        “Until Ostwick was taken _,_ yes?”

        “It is simply that I have encountered all manner of Circle magi... and your face simply does not fit the coin.”

        Trevelyan dropped his reins, his puzzled eyes meeting Dorian’s. “What’s wrong with my _face?_ ”

        Dorian groaned inwardly.

        “It’s more all that leather, actually. I have never met a mage who willingly parades about in nought but mismatched leather collar to heel. Unless, you have made, ahem, alterations?”

        “Well seeing as what I am currently parading about in originally belonged to two rams, a wolf and a brace of nug. Yeah, I’d say I made some alterations. The functional kind.” Trevelyan answered so pointedly, it was impossible to tell if he were jesting.

        How deplorable that these Southerners don’t appreciate fine tailoring. Dorian found himself genuinely wanting to pioneer a change in the man’s thinking, so targeted the man’s sense of duty instead. “What with being the fresh face of the Inquisition, I thought you might attire yourself with a little more pizzazz. Whatever the providence, leather falls remarkably short of the mark.”

        Trevelyan grumbled. “I don’t _just_ wear leather, I’ll have you know I can dress for an occasion.”

        “I do _suppose_ leather smallclothes would be quite a stretch, or lack thereof, for any occasion.” Dorian gushed, immediately regretting the words.

        To Dorian’s amusement Trevelyan unleashed an undignified snort. “ _Andraste’s tears_ ,” he breathed. “ ‘Indulge an academic’ he says. Since you are so interested in the failings of my clothing, I would love to know, as _an academic_ , where it is written that mages work best in flappy cloaks and shiny buckles?” He gestured to Dorian’s chest, where of course his shirt was looped with immaculate silverite buckles. Dorian did not notice Cassandra’s scowl had melted into a slack-jawed expression.

        An unbidden image of the only occasion he could think it would be entirely acceptable for Trevelyan to wear leather smallclothes fixed itself in Dorian’s mind. However, while no one could deny that the man was dashing, Dorian had met more civilised looking creatures in wayside taverns... not that it would really matter once the leather was removed.

        Dorian rather wished he had less time on his hands and did not to have to be at such close quarters to Trevelyan. This sort of thinking was fruitless and bound to put his foot irrevocably in his mouth some point. Plus, Trevelyan was not his usual type. A little too rough around the edges, he told himself.

 _It has been too long, that is all_ , he convinced himself.

        Dorian had the sense to feel a modicum of shame. _Venhedis._ Was that a blush emerging on Trevelyan’s cheeks? Surely the man could not possibly have an inkling of what Dorian was thinking. The flush was gone before Dorian could capture the image for later. _For later?_

        “Dorian?” Trevelyan was looking at him with concern.

 _Ah, yes. Words._ He was usually good at those.

        “I’ll have you know I am just as talented with or without my buckles.” Trevelyan’s eyebrows shot up alarmingly. _My my, what was that man thinking of?_

        Without warning, Trevelyan’s hands were leaping to his daggers, his face ash pale. To his left, the piercing noise of a horse shrieking. Dorian spun in his saddle to the grisly sight of Cassandra’s stallion, gushing slick entrails into already crimson grass. The terror demon screeched, rising on its spindly arms. The sound sent paralysing shockwaves through Dorian’s limbs. Trevelyan was similarly stupefied, struggling to keep a hold on his daggers. Cassandra, however, was behind the terror in an instant. The Seeker cleaved the grotesque head from the terror's shoulders in one efficient swipe. The demon's spiny, green body convulsed wildly before finally going still. Its skin paled to the colour of parchment. Cassandra's stallion had finally stilled. The crimson blood of horse and black ichor of demon congealed in the grasses.

            For a moment, everything was quiet. Cassandra made a sound of disgust on noticing the cruel gash which had sheared through her greaves.

        Dorian tensed upon hearing a distant cacophony of shrieks and hisses. A rift then.

            Trevelyan already had already dug his heels into his panicked mount, heading towards the sounds. Despite Cassandra's shouts, Dorian followed, deftly unbuckling his staff from its case as he rode. He glanced back to see Cassandra attempting to hobble after them, only to end up staggering to the ground. The rest of their party were still a few minutes behind, it having been his, Trevelyan’s and Cassandra’s turn scouting ahead. She would soon be attended to, not that Dorian cared much for the Seeker's welfare. Trevelyan had opened up a gap. The man was riding like as man possessed, likely realising that terrors could bubble up from the ground anywhere within the main procession. While Inquisition soldiers and Redcliffe mages would dispatch demons quickly, the procession was also made up largely of refugees seeking the refuge Haven offered. Even a lone terror popping up among them could cause carnage.

        They dismounted at the entrance to a hollow. The very moment their boots touched the ground both horses bolted back towards the rest of their party. Trevelyan held a wicked-edged dagger in his left hand and clasped his knarlwood staff in his right. The anchor at his left palm pulsed with green light. Dorian bounced his tall smoke ash staff between his hands, examining the demons that this rift had to offer.

        Back in Redcliffe, running wildly through the castle, there had been no time to make plans of attack. Here, that courtesy was once more denied as a pair of flaming rage demons dragged into view, blocking their view of any other demons the rift had spewed.

        “Cover me! I need to get close.” Trevelyan barked, the tip of his staff shimmering with ice as he barrelled forwards between the two rages. Dorian encased the demons in a wall of ice with a swirl of his staff. He followed into the hollow, pine branches scratching at his tunic. 

            Dorian cloaked himself in the raw power of the Fade, spewing fireballs at the spindly terror demons that were bubbling up from the ground. They were most vulnerable when emerging, and at a glance it was clear that the pair would need every advantage. Dorian saw Trevelyan was already halfway to the rift, dodging demons like a hare fleeing wolves. The young mage twisted to point his staff at a pursuing rage demon, managing to partially encase it in a chunk of ice. But the work was sloppy. The Tevinter grimaced on seeing the rage demon's mouth was free from ice. A deadly mistake. Fire roared in the rage's throat, ready to spit at Trevelyan, whose back was away from the demon.

            Dorian flung a barrier at Trevelyan just as the rage’s fire spit shot toward his oblivious companion. The young mage stopped in his dash to the rift to turn and face Dorian, seeming more alarmed than grateful to find himself surrounded by the rippling blue barrier. Although that could be because the Tevinter was shooting daggers at the man. 

            Twice more, Dorian intercepted with a barrier just in time, but he would be hard done to keep this up _and_ deal with the demons spewing from the rift and rising from the ground. Dorian had caught up to Trevelyan now. His apprently suicidal companion was as yet unscathed, young face awash with the ghastly green glow of the rift. Now that the Herald was close enough, he outstretched his marked hand and yelled with a rugged force that Dorian had never expected from the man.The hollow resonated with the blood curdling screech of Trevelyan's anchor disrupting the rift. 

            Dorian finally reached Trevelyan, and felt his back come up against the young man's. A group of spindly terror demons emerged schreeching from the earth, scampering in their direction the moment they got their bearings. Dorian gathered mana to his staff as he had a thousand times before, willed the raw energy into a burst of inferno magic...

            Nothing happened.

            Dorian didn't understand. He was nowhere near spent! Pressed against Trevelyan's back, he could feel the thrumming energy of the anchor reverberating through Trevelyan's anchor. Dorian tried again, but this time the effort felt like he was trying to tug a hole in the fade itself. The veil was shut against him. 

            The mana Dorian already had stored in his fingers and staff felt slippery. If he didn't do something soon he would be left with nothing, and there was no guarantee that Trevelyan could close the rift before the demons reached them. Dorian loosed his mana sparingly in puny fireballs aimed at the demons knees. Two of the group fell but a handful of terrors were still in pursuit. 

            The unnerving music of the anchor seemed to reach a crescendo. The anchor flashed white and a clap like thunder sounded. A shockwave of energy rippled through from the rift.

           Two lesser shades had crumpled from the anchor’s crippling force. Dorian’s ice wall shattered. The entrapped rages melted with the ice to form a flaming puddle. The grass was littered with bits of terror demon, oozing bubbling, black ichor. 

            A single, dazed terror remained, one arm hanging from torn shoulder ligaments. Recovering from the disorientation of the anchor and despite the injury, it rushed at them on three limbs, determined to rip limbs apart.

            _Dorian did not have enough mana.  
_

            He pulled desperately through the veil into the Fade, rejoicing when he was finally able to tug mana into his body. It was still a struggle, but something. He launched a ball of fire at the terror, laughing manically as the demon fell to the ground inches from his boots.

            All too late, Dorian heard the breathless yell and  felt cold air at his back where a moment before Trevelyan's warm shoulders had been. The anchor's connection had been lost and Trevelyan was scurrying to clear ground between him and a terror which had bowled into him. Dorian was aghast to see Trevelyan had _dropped his staff_ to weild both of his daggers. Dorian prepared himself to through the veil, but felt the mana pour easily into his limbs. He loosed a fireball, barely scalding the terror’s arm. The young mage stood his ground, facing the terror’s charge. That was the moment where, a foot from them both, the rift blazed once more and an army of shades erupted between the two mages. Dorian lost sight of Trevelyan and the terror, but he could hear the heated battle behind the mass of new demons.

        Dorian did not take have a moment to think through his options, running full pelt away from his besieged ally.

        “SCUM OF OBLIVION!” Dorian bellowed, stooping to collect Trevelyan's staff with his free hand and hissing angry embers from his own smoke ash staff.

            The hulking shades dragged their bodies towards him, taking the bait.

            “I think you’ll find!..” he curled a whip of fire around the bodies of two shades who had headed in Trevelyan’s direction, “I’m the mage you’re looking for! HERE! OVER HERE!”

            He brandished both staffs, casting twin flares which caught the attention of more shades. Dorian held the staffs aloft as he backtracked away from Trevelyan. Yes, the shades were following.

            When Dorian deemed he was far enough across the hollow, he stilled, desperately working to slow his skittering heart. Only in a controlled state would he be able to produce the magic he intended.

            He pulled deeply from the veil until the broiling mana threatened to overwhelm his control, yet he held the magic close, right up until the chill of the first shade’s breath assaulted him.

He swung both staffs in a smooth arc, blasting a curtain of fire around him. To Dorian’s skin, the magic was an intense, not unpleasant tingle. To all else, the inferno magic was death. Demons, flora and fauna hissed and withered as one.

            Over half of the hollow was entirely scorched - much more than he had intended. If Trevelyan had not gotten clear...

            Drained as he was, Dorian desperately stumbled through the thick cloud of ash and smoke, calling for Trevelyan.

            Nothing. _Kaffas!_

            Dorian fell to his knees. Guilt and fury threatened to rip him apart.

_Cough-cough! “Dorian?”_

_Trevelyan! Somewhere close... Weak and strained as the voice was, Dorian’s name had never sounded sweeter._

           When Dorian finally made out the form of Trevelyan, he finally thought to clear the air of smoke. He was sooty, drenched in demon gore, but not seriously injured. Trevelyan’s twin daggers were dripping with black ichor. His leg was bloodied but it looked to be a shallow puncture. Indeed, the man crouched over the corpse of the terror which had attacked him like a wolf claiming its kill. The picture was ruined somewhat by his spluttering.

            Their eyes met. Dorian’s ghostly grey against Trevelyan’s cloudy green.

            For a moment, Dorian through that he detected fear in Trevelyan’s wide grey-green eyes.

            Dorian held out an experimental hand, which Trevelyan hesitantly accepted, rising shakily to his feet. Was the young mage _scared_ of him?

            But questions would have to wait. There was still a job to do.

            With a determined thrust of his fist, the anchor screeched at the rift, until the sickly green tear popped from existence.

            Trevelyan flopped onto the grass, laughing unreservedly between coughs. Dorian could not help a burst of his own laughter at the man's ecstasy.

            It was an excellent thing to be alive, after all.

            Dorian lay down beside him. Yet he could not enjoy the view as much as he would like. In truth, he felt weaker than he had in a long time. Drawing through the veil to the extent of almost brimming over was never wise, yet had surely prevented further casualty to his fellow mage.

            It struck him that Trevelyan had been directly responsible for the deaths of precisely two demons, whereas he had sent about a dozen back to the fade.

            The ice wall Trevelyan had cast was poorly done, both in form and intensity. Usually Dorian had no sympathy for weakness, no desire to associate with untalented mages. Yet the man was also _outstanding_.

            Trevelyan had used the power of his anchor to sunder every demon in range, to destroy a rift entirely – a feat which would have Tevinter's best scholars scratching their facial fair for weeks. There were other reasons the man was outstanding as well, but best not dwell on _that_.

            The victory was bittersweet for Dorian. His access to the Fade had been obscured at the worst possible moment. He was not used to feeling incapable, and that was exactly how it had felt as he tried to scrape together mana which would have flowed easily at any other time. Unless...

            "The anchor interferes with the veil," Dorian mused aloud.

        Trevelyan rolled to face him. "Looks like it. Great for sending rifts to Oblivion. But... oh." Trevelyan noticed Dorian's look of scutiny. "Did I not mention this before?"

        Dorian rolled his eyes. Trust the man to neglect to mention something important. "You didn't," he said pointedly.

        "Ah. Well I thought you might've guessed. We did tackle rifts in the time fold. But the memories are still a but fuzzy." he admitted.

       "Our memories are unlikely to get any clearer. It might be why I cannot remember this happening in the time fold." Dorian reasoned.

       Trevelyan agreed and a long silence ensued. It was not an awkward silence, nor was it truly silent. A flock of ducks honked overhead, wind whispered and creaked the heavy summer branches.

        “Not that I don't appreciate it, but best not let the others this was all you.” Trevelyan whispered, gesturing to the blackened swathe of the hollow.

        “So I am only granted the _privilege_ of rescuing the Herald of Andraste but am to take none of the credit!” Dorian exclaimed.

        “ _Some_ of the credit.” Roycen reasoned. “Or else you stoke the rumours that you are a mage of rare talent to be feared. You have to admit what you did there was a bit too... brilliant. I will not forget that I owe you my life twice over, if that’s anything.”

        “That could be _something,_ ” Dorian purred softly, "I am hardly about to let you forget it."  It was all he could manage under the weight of fatigue.

        Both men fell silent to simply enjoy the flood of relief that always follows a close call with death. When Cassandra, accompanied by a group of Inquisition soldiers, finally found them in the grass.

            Dorian found himself wishing he had manipulated time, just a little longer in the grass with his fascinating companion. That would be perfect.

 

* * *

 

 

        “Hey Sparkler, Stretch!” Varric drew up awkwardly next to Dorian and Roycen, who were on fresh mounts. Varric's horse was intent on veering to the right. “Easy, girl, eeaasy,” Varric eventually regained control of his wayward mount. At Varric’s own admittance, dwarves were not built for horsemanship. He shot them a grin. “That was quite to show you gave those demons back there.”

        “You saw that?” Roycen had ordered an increased pace, hoping that no one would take the time needed to explore where the fade rift had been.

        “It was hard to miss, Stretch. Could smell burnt grass a league off. He flicked his attention to Dorian. “Top job, Sparkler. I’ll admit I thought you were all mouth and no business. Now I know not to piss you off. Always hated the smell of roast dwarf.”

        Dorian shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. It was likely taking all of his willpower not to boast profusely. “It wasn’t all my doing-” Dorian began.

        “-No? Sparkler, it was either you or Stretch. Know who I'm putting my money one.”

        “It’s okay.” Roycen said. “Varric’s seen enough of my magic to know I’m not responsible for 80 feet of destruction by fire. It’s just, if you could keep this discreet. There is such a thing as being too impressive.” He winked at Dorian and immediately regretted it on seeing him inflate with more pride than usual, which was saying something.

        Dorian gushed, enjoying the praise immensely. “Yes, we wouldn’t want to reinforce my brilliance too much. Someone might get the idea to try and throw me in a Circle, not that I would be an easy catch.” Dorian returned a wink to Roycen, who tried to hide the heat on his cheeks.

        “My lips are sealed.” Varric assured them. “Can't speak for my pen though. And my hand is getting an itch. Sparkler, congratulations. I think you’re a possible.”

        “I am a _what_?” asked Dorian.

        “A possible, as a character in my upcoming series. You’ll have to wait your turn though. _Swords and Shields_ has another two volumes at least. It’s my worst work so far but I’ve never copped out mid-series and I don’t plan to start now.”

        “Do I at least get a say in my apparent immortalisation in fiction? I could not bear for you to pen me an injustice.”

        “Trust me, I’m a professional." He beamed convincingly. "Any alterations would be in improvement. For one thing, no reader would believe a moustache that perfectly preened. Its 'gotta go!”

        “You would rob me of my pride and joy-” Dorian lamented.

        “-Don’t worry,” Roycen interjected. “I’m a possible too and Varric is planning to combine my personality with Cullen’s... physique.”

        Varric shrugged in apology. “What can I say? The ladies love their fair golden curls and developed muscle structure.”

        “If you dare tamper with my hair, I will shorten you so severely that you will be known evermore as quarter-pint!” Dorian growled. “My esteemed self will not be watered down in a trashy piece of fiction. Speaking of my prowess, I felt something odd since you stopped by.”

            Dorian directed his focus to the crossbow at Varric’s back. “Enchanted,” he stated knowingly.

            Varric withdrew his crossbow, Bianca, which Dorian proceeded to scrutinise. “Intricate, yet clunky. I cannot untangle the layers of magic with any precision. Dwarvish, I assume? Something to help you fill your enemies with holes.”

        “Something like that,” Varric nodded, reclaiming the crossbow. “You wouldn’t want to tangle with Bianca’s enchantments though. Or you’d be in for one hell of a tangle with _the_ Bianca. And I don’t think she’s your type.”

        “Dwarf?” Dorian asked.

        “With tits, yeah. Great stonking bouncers so big that—”

        “I have quite the picture, thank you.”

        Roycen was intrigued at the turn of conversation, He had never come across a suitable moment to ask, but he was curious to know. “Have you never tried...?” he directed at Dorian.

        “Never tried what?” Dorian’s sly smile told Roycen that the mage knew exactly what he was asking. He just wanted to hear Roycen say it.

        Roycen shrugged, trying to behave casually. “You know.”

        “Do I? And here I had you for a public speaker. Ask away! _You might even like the answer._ ”

        Maker... that crooked smile was dangerous.

        Roycen gulped, composing himself. “Have you never... found breasts attractive. On a woman, I mean.”

        “As opposed to those found on a warrior Qunari?” beamed Varric, enjoying Roycen and Dorian's conversation.

        Dorian answered without pause. “No, on both counts. Indeed, I find women decidedly unstirring as a whole. I even sampled a pair of womanly... _assets_ once, having lost a game of Wicked Grace most spectacularly. I am no longer as fond of the game as I was.” He drifted away into his reminiscing.

        “I bet,” Varric chuckled.

        “Oh.” Roycen said. While he had been curious about Dorian’s tastes, he found he had no idea how to continue the conversation without seeming like he was probing into the mage’s private affairs.

            Instead, he let Varric take over, who wanted their advice on ideas on how to end the Swords and Shields saga.

 

* * *

 

 

        Roycen liked to practice his rogue skills whenever he had the chance and there was nothing more motivating than getting your leg almost ripped off by a demon. If his close-combat skills were more refined then maybe he wouldn't get his leg ripped open the next time he felt the dreaded hollow feeling of his depleted mana. It turned out that Redcliffe was home to some excellent mage healers, who had dealt with the shallow wound promptly. Less than a day later it was like he had never been clawed by that terror.

            Today, he decided to test his stealth. He had already developed the skill to a passable level and had even managed to sneak up to a couple of rifts, deploying his anchor before the demons were aware of what hit them. Today, his target was Dorian.

            It was always a little more challenging to startle a mage, who if they were drawing magic for any reason, could be alerted to another mage’s presence as keenly as with sight or sound would do for others. Lucky for him, Dorian was busy buckling an unwieldy case to his saddle straps. It gave him an idea.

        Softly, softly, Roycen cleverly placed each step on the trampled earth, using his staff to take weight where it was needed. He kept his profile low, edging closer with each slow exhale of his breath.

           He drew a pocket knife from one of the baggy pockets his trousers afforded. It snuck open with his thumb. Any onlooker who did not know Roycen might have had cause to fear for Dorian.

As it was, the Qunari, Iron Bull and the Dwarf, Varric had frozen to watch, muttering conspiratorially (probably placing bets). In stealth, Roycen found his eye line level was around Dorian’s abdomen. That blasted swishy cloak may have caused a problem to a younger, less experienced version of himself.

            Drawing the merest wisp of magic from his staff, he funnelled a light gust of wind which caused the cloak to envelope Dorian from shoulders to knees. Roycen’s arms followed deftly, the pocket knife slicing buckles on the bag Dorian had been attaching.

        Dorian never felt a thing, even performed a little half-jump when he turned to see Roycen standing bold as brass, admiring his handiwork.

        “I realise we have established you _clearly_ have something against my buckles but do you MIND?” the Tevinter snapped. Unnerved by the lash of Dorian’s voice, his horse shifted suddenly. The dangling case thumped to the ground.

        Seeking escape from the Tevinter’s scathing look, Roycen turned to Varric and Iron Bull. The Qunari scowled. The dwarf and make a gesture of punching the air.

        “That, Stretch. Was bloody perfect.” Varric beamed.

        “I learnt from the best, Half-Pint.” Roycen replied genuinely. He was very fond of Varric, and appreciates his stoic support and grounded advice. Varric was even a voice of reason in the tenuous beginning, where he was suspected of having caused the breach.

            However, Varric was also an opportunist.

        The Dwarf planted himself in front of Dorian. “Sparkler, you sure don’t take a jest well from the look of you.”

        “Forgive me if I don’t consider the sabotage of personal property a grand entertainment!”

        Varric was not wrong. Dorian was livid.

        Roycen was completely taken aback by the fury still dripping from the mage. It made no sense to Roycen. In the face of near death he had been all boisterous quips and brazen magic...

But then Roycen understood as Dorian bent to the case which had fallen from his horse. He whipped his staff from the case in one hand and took a wide, protective step backwards from Roycen.

            Varric and the Iron Bull took their leave.

        “Ah, your staff. If I’d have known...” Roycen’s voice trailed off.

        “ _Mehdri_ , I shan’t let this cruel man hurt you.” Dorian stroked the staff delicately.

        Roycen could not stay his curiosity, “ _Meh-dri-He_?”

        Dorian looked uncomfortable, brooding in silence. Roycen raised his grey green eyes in confusion to Dorian’s. “I would not have taken you for the sort of man to hold a grudge.”

        “Nor would I for one moment have suspected our _Dear Herald_ of sneaking up on me like a common brigand.” Roycen took a moment more to study Dorian’s pale amber eyes, but he appeared to be somewhere quite far away.

        “...Keeping you?”

        Dorian came to in an uncharacteristic flush of confusion. “Say?”

        “I said, ‘Am I keeping you?’ You look to be off somewhere.”

        “Ah,” Dorian mused softly. “I was just thinking... it has been a very long time since a mage has been able to successfully take me unawares as you did. You see, I am most always tapped into the fade in some small way. Just now I was most certainly lifting a little magic to stop those _mehdri_ straps from popping during the ride. I am wondering quite how you did it.”

        “Ah,” Roycen mirrored. “ _Meh-dree_ again. Your staff, right— so what does it mean?”

            It occurred to Roycen too late that he must have sounded every bit the eager student in that moment. That tone belonged to the scholarly Circle mage of his past. It certainly did not belong to the stretched-thin Herald his companions were depending on.

            He felt a sharp twang that Dorian’s time as a companion may yet be short lived. He could learn a lot through him, given time. Maker knows his chain lightning was in need of some finesse.

        “My, are you not like a dog with a bone?” the mage quipped playfully, before giving in to Roycen’s curiosity. He sighed out the meaning of _Mehdri_ in a single breath.

        “Useless?” Roycen assessed Dorian’s features, but felt sure he was speaking truthfully. “Why in dark Oblivion would you name your staff, Useless?”

        “That, your Inquisitiveness, you may never know.” One crinkle-eyed look from Dorian stilled Roycen in his protestations. “Unless, perhaps...” he smiled mischievously, “You succeed again in taking me unawares like that. Until then I name your success a fluke.”

         Roycen found himself silently accepting the challenge as he finally mounted his horse. Even though he would with any luck soon be hearing the tale himself, Roycen could not help trying to work out the story himself of a staff named ‘Useless’.

        The last two weeks he had been feeling the drain of being the Herald more than before. Perhaps it was simply that the adrenaline of discovering his powers and place in the world had waned.

            The constant pull for his attentions was to be expected, but he was beginning to find the repeating pattern of requisitions, introductions and negotiations wearing on him. Time after time supplies were sought, nobles and common folk alike enlisted, swathes of countryside made safe. But ‘safe’ was quickly becoming a byword for temporarily safe.

            Indeed, there were times when Roycen dreamed he was using the mark of the rift to submerge so many glowing green apples. They satisfyingly melted to a wormy mush at his touch of his anchor. Yet more acid green apples insisted on bobbing to the surface, growing in number, until apples spilled all over the cool Chantry floor. That was when the apples dissolved into mud. The thick, sour mud gushed from the Chantry door and smashed in the stained glass windows. When the mud finally began to choke him, Roycen had woken in the dark, sweating and gasping for wine, water, anything to drown the memory of his nightmare.

         Both of Roycen’s hands were grasping through his hair, his reins neglected, when he felt an unexpected touch at his wrist. It was barely a tap, but Roycen found that the contact was enough to break the trance.

            Dorian was holding both sets of reins in his long-fingered hands. The anger in Dorian’s dove grey eyes was replaced with concern.

            He passed Roycen’s reins to him before trotting ahead to negotiate the shallow gulley before them.

 

 

 


	5. Judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's place in the Inquisition is finally decided.

**Judgement**

        Never let it be said that Dorian Pavus did not know how to make the right impression.

        What with his raffish wit and faultlessly tasteful attire, he made an art of charming nobles and common folk alike into forgetting he was a frightful mage out of Tevinter. Fighting bias with charisma would not be of little use today, however. Or so Herald Trevelyan had counselled him before they parted ways at the gates.

        Haven was less than he expected and more. Half the buildings were in disrepair, or otherwise so altered by recent additions that their original purpose is now unfathomable. What Haven did not lack for, however, was people: fervent followers, weary refugees, restless armsmen. Scrawny children of all ages were constantly underfoot, scrambling over roofs and causing all manner of general mischief.

        Although he had experienced no actual threats to his person thus far, Dorian knew his current status as an _honoured guest_ under armed guard would be read by most as _uncertain enemy_ and could easily slip into his incarceration. He would most likely be slung into some comfortable hole, destined to pace out the remaining war like a caged Mabari. Alexius, recently ex-Magister and Dorian’s previous mentor had not helped the situation. The apocalyptic future Alexius created was only narrowly avoided when Dorian and the Herald were accidently thrust into that future to whip up a little mayhem of their own. You would think that fighting alongside the Herald on two occasions would prove his loyalty. Trevelyan himself had stated this was the case for him, but there were other less trusting faces to soften.

        The very evening of the arrival into Haven and Dorian found himself being herded through the entire length of Haven by two of Seeker Cassandra’s lackeys. This time the Herald wasn’t around to neutralise the barbed stares nor that most universal of gestures: a hearty spit as he passed by.

        Dorian’s thoughts fell longingly to the splendid black and gold robes back among the baggage. He hoped Trevelyan was right about how to convince the fellow members of the Inquisition’s Inner Circle of his innocence.Not that he had felt particularly chaste during the ride to Haven.

        _Venhedis._ Even now, ascending the well worn steps to the Chantry to face his judgement, Dorian’s mind wandered to whether Trevelyan would have had time to change into something less leathery and more... Herald-esque.

        On reaching the stony figures before the altar, at any other time he would have swung into a bow, knowing smirk daring and defiant. Instead, Dorian dipped into a half-kneel on the Chantry’s worn stone floor. He placed his smoke ash staff innocuously before him. This was not the time for his usual flourishes, yet he was quite rusty. Donning a solemn persona was hardly natural to the flamboyant Tevinter mage.

        In a place built for the spiritual music of chanting, the stony silence was striking.

        For the sake of his uncertain judgement at Haven, he was dressed simply. His quilted silks and dyed cloth were replaced with the simple tunic and breeches which Trevelyan had unexpectedly produced.

        He glanced up in what he hoped was a demure manner at the Seeker, Cassandra Pentaghast. Today she wore the sour lemon scowl she seemed to reserve just for him. To her it hadn’t made a swat of difference that he had presented himself a beggar. The Seeker became transfixed on his staff as if the coiled snake at its head was preparing to spring up and bite. Her wrist hovered cautiously above her sword belt.

        Beside her, even the hunk of raw ex-Templar, Cullen looked less intimidating, although his fair curly locks made it difficult for Dorian to take him as seriously as he should. His pale yellow curls topped his broad face queerly and looked downright ridiculous with his crimson commander’s armour.

        In truth, it was a stroke of luck that half of Haven were not gathered in attendance. Also absent was the Inquisition’s puffed-up Antivan ambassador, Josephine and the sickeningly sweet spymaster Leliana. During her questioning, Dorian had began to fear for his _parts_ as Leliana’s softly-softly voice gradually seeped venom. Leliana and Josephine both would have been shrewd enough to dismiss his freedom entirely, solely on the danger based on his being born and raised Tevinter. Of course the Inquisition could hardly ship him back to that delightful empire, who knows what mischief he could make with his scant yet valuable knowledge of the Herald... No, the best he could hope for would be to be kept under watch, a firm staff width away from the Herald’s trusted circle. Even that would hardly ease the masses. Some likely fed their children night-tales where Tevinter blood mages would suck out eyeballs for breakfast and savour the jelly.

        Dorian let out a quick breath of relief as an oaken side door squealed and the _Herald of Andraste_ joined his companions, alone. Having only three in judgement was a small mercy. Three he could work with and surely the Herald had done everything possible thus far in a drive for his acceptance. He expected nothing less, what with having pulled his fortunate rump back through from that parallel future – with no small danger to himself he might add!

        Flanked by his more senior companions, the _Herald of Andraste_ , Trevelyan, appeared alarmingly young... and as much as he hated to admit it to himself, strikingly palatable. Dorian could not take his eyes away from the man, committing the outline his fresh navy tunic and fitted grey trousers revealed. All in all, the usually scruffy, leather-clad mage scrubbed up well. Almost as good as he had imagined, which was a rarity! His youth was exaggerated by a lustrous head of bronze-blonde hair and a distinct lack of battle scars. _How long could that last in his line of work?_

        Trevelyan’s hard grey-green eyes met Dorian pale grey ones. Dorian quickly looked at the floor instead, wishful for his sweeping, silken cloak. He felt almost naked without his silverite buckles.

        Trevelyan gave away nothing. It was expected of a disciplined Circle mage, yet Dorian discovered a tight lump forming in his chest. He realised he had no idea whether the Herald would bend to the will of his more senior companions. All Dorian knew for certain was that Trevelyan seemed to enjoy his humour. However, the jokes were (unusually for Dorian) so often at _his_ expense.

        Under the silent gazes of the three above, Dorian felt goosebumps prickle his arms.

        “We now all know of Dorian Pavus, esteemed mage of Tevinter,” Trevelyan began formally. “Through his skill and grit...”

        Dorian thought it safe to look up again, this sounded more delicious than he had reason to believe. Then he noted the trepidation in the Herald’s cloudy green eyes.

        “...In the face of the terrifying future in which Magister Alexius and this Elder One enslaved this world, it is only through his actions that we live to fight to fight another day. We are building the Inquisition to a force to destroy such enemies. So we have a need of _every_ pair of hands.” The Herald finished more firmly.

        Cullen _hmffed_ in affirmation, nodding at Trevelyan.

_Perhaps there was yet hope._

        The Seeker, Cassandra, was of course unconvinced. “While it is true that the Tevinter assisted us into the present, was this not surely in his own interest? Slaying our enemies to escape a desperate future. Was this not simply an act of self preservation?”

        Anger betrayed Trevelyan’s even tone, “Cassandra, you wrongly judge him based solely on his national heritage. When I arrived into the future, my leg half-buckled by the impact, it was Dorian who healed me so we could make haste.”

 _Wait. Surely Dorian would have remembered that._ He peered slyly up at Trevelyan.

       “—Because he did not yet know what dangers he might encounter!” Cassandra interjected, oblivious to Dorian’s suspicions.

       “He could have easily finished me there and then, or before entering the portal. As a Tevinter mage if he wanted me dead then I would—”

       “—Then he did not wish you dead, _yet_. We cannot trust Tevinter!”

       “We cannot _trust_ anyone other than ourselves, yet we have to make use of every pair of willing hands.”

       During this exchange, Cullen glowered and gaped inanely in turns, his cheeks now the colour of beets.

       Dorian too was losing his composure. His ingenious attempt at modesty would clearly never win over the Seeker. _Venhedis_ , Trevelyan was lying through his teeth! 

        _How many people would lie for him back home?_ He would not have this be for nought.

        “ _If, I may_!” Dorian’s voice was lightning. Cassandra and Trevelyan looked away from each other, breathless. He awaited the rumbling thunder beneath the Seeker’s features to fade before sweeping onto his feet, staff now bouncing lightly between his hands. “I do wonder whether my thoughts on this small matter would be appreciated?”

        “I was not there.” Cullen finally cut the silence. “But I will hear you out, Tevinter. As the Herald says, we need every ally.” Trevelyan waved his assent; the Seeker only followed the movement of his staff.

        “Seeker, you are correct.” That caused the old broad’s eyes to narrow suspiciously. “I _did_ act in self preservation back in the time fold. I’ve yet to meet a sane individual who doesn’t value their own skin. Yet, if my memory does not fail, I also put myself at grave risk by testing the portal _I_ created with _my own_ body, when I could have fried ( _or not_ ) our irreplaceable Herald.

        “We are aware of your past actions,” Trevelyan affirmed, unreadable once more. “What would you bring to our cause?”

        A sly smile sneaked across his shadowed face, his staff twirled delicately between long fingers. “Fear beyond the fade. Power beyond reckoning. Blooood magic?” isn’t that what you all expect to hear?”

        He had them.

        His mouth softened. “Alas, I am done with Tevinter for a time, perhaps all of time. As our dear Herald can attest, I’ve some small knowledge in some very obscure areas of magic and am not a bad shot with fire. Oh, and there is my widely-famed charm of course. Just ask the ladies.” He winked at Cassandra, figuring it could hardly make her opinion of him fall any lower.

        Dorian suspected Cassandra’s eyebrows could not go any higher.

        “I don’t pine for Tevinter, but their loss of Dorian Pavus must be one of the greatest tragedies to befall the Imperium of late.” He added, clutching the front of his tunic in mock torment.

        Finding a flicker of submission in the Seeker’s features, he knew he had done enough. The mood in the Chantry had cooled a few degrees and it was hard even for Cassandra to argue that Dorian was the semblance of a fearsome blood mage that Tevinter was infamous for.

        In the end, his usual charm had worked magic after all. It was time to change out of these rags.

        Appearing both relieved and exhausted, Trevelyan explained the conditions of Dorian’s position as a member of the Inquisition. As a fellow mage, Roycen was well acquainted with the prejudices to their kind and consequently assigned Dorian to assist Haven’s middle-aged apothecary, Adan in collecting healing supplies – a supportive and notably non-combative role.

        Announcing brightly that he knew the way to the apothecary, Dorian dismissed himself (he didn't know the way, but Haven was hardly the majestic, urban sprawl of Minrathous he was accustomed to). Spinning on his heels, he missed the familiar swish of a silken cloak to announce his departure. No matter.

        He imagined life as an apothecary’s lackey would keep him in his finest physique and there was no telling when that might come in useful.

        Plus, he could now get to work in earnest on shamelessly persuading the masses of his brilliance. He had noticed a ramshackle tavern on the way up to the Chantry and was of a mind to begin his charm offensive there.

 

* * *

 

 

        The tavern was curiously empty, until Dorian figured out that the barkeep was elsewhere. Apparently he had family in the return party from Redcliffe and had been absent all that afternoon.

        Why someone else wasn’t manning the bar was beyond him. How qualified does one have to be to pour pints? Dorian was about to search elsewhere for his wine when he noticed a cloaked figure at a corner table with a wooden cup before him. Dorian approached. A bald, middle-aged elf. His expression was drawn and he looked like a tavern regular if ever Dorian had seen one.

       Dorian noticed the elf’s cup was filled with an amber liquid. Whiskey? A warming spirit would be _almost_ as good as wine.

       He filled his palm with that most universal of currencies: silver, taking the seat opposite from the bald elf.

       “How much for your cup?” Dorian asked. The bald elf didn’t raise his eyes from his beverage, although he did stop sipping.

       Dorian flicked one of his silvers across the table. It struck the elf’s bony wrist.

       The bald elf’s orb-like eyes raised for a moment. It was a strange thing for Dorian to see scorn on an Elven face. A lifetime of being raised to believe in his superiority got the better of him-“That wasn’t a euphemism. I wish to buy your drink, elf. Name your price!” Dorian demanded.

       “I wish to drink in solitude, _Shemlen_.” The Elvhen came out in a low hiss. Dorian ignored the hostility, keeping his goal in mind.

       “I like a man who drives a hard bargain. Three silvers, _on my honour_. Be thankful I am a man of my word.”

       Before the elf could make a move, Dorian reached for the wooden cup and stood to drink. He brought the amber liquid to his lips – and spat instantly! His tongue was swelling from the scald of the burning liquid. His lips were throbbing with pain.

     “VEHENDIS!” Dorian cursed, fixing his rage on... an empty chair?

 

_The elf! Where was he?_

 

     Dorian cursed himself for a fool as he felt the pressure of a staff against his back. A web of magic radiated through his limbs, paralysing him.

     “Our vices, magePavus, will end us all.” the elf sneered.

      Dorian tested the boundaries of the magic without success.

      “I demand you release me, or the Herald will hear of this!” Dorian barked.

      “You will apologise,” the elf said calmly, walking to Dorian’s front but keeping the magic holding him firmly in place.

      “My mouth is on fire, dignity in tatters and I owe you an apology!? _Who do you think you are?_ ” Dorian pooled his mana and thrust against Solas' restraint. He freed an arm,but the triumph was short lied when the elf answered him in a cool tone.

      “I am named Solas, fade expert, dream walker. Unlike you I am an indispensible member of the Herald's Inner circle. You. Will. Apologise.”

     _Vishante kaffas._

    

* * *

 

     Back in an Inquisition assigned tent, Dorian prayed to the Maker that Solas would keep what happened in the tavern to himself. Not that he believed in the Maker, but the situation was quite desperate. The apostate elf had not been above making Dorian regret every word and action. 

       It pained Dorian immensely to think that he had not even sensed that the elf was a mage until the pilfered drink turned to mage fire in his mouth.

       He lay wide awake on a lumpy pallet, wondering when things would start to get easier, or at least tolerable. Was Trevelyan to be his sole ally in this nest of hornets?

       There were worse predicaments he supposed...


	6. A Humble Demonstration

 

 

A Humble Demonstration

 

       That evening, Dorian was choosing between the two sets of clothing that had travelled with him to Haven: the black and emerald with silk trim and his midnight blue and silverite. He would not spend another moment dressed like a penniless Chantry boy. The rest of his belongings would be along shortly from Redcliffe’s the Gull and Lantern.

       He had wasted no time in finding an unoccupied scout to trek across the Hinterlands and fetch the cases. Dorian paid him double to ensure the speedy return of his specially tailored clothing.

        He _may_ also have poked the scout with his staff, declaring that he would now be able to track the scout should he desert with his clothes for a quick profit. The threat was complete nonsense of course, but decidedly effective. The flustered scout let out something akin to a squeak, gave a hurried nod and dashed for the stables.

       In the end, Dorian decided on the black and emerald garments. He lit an oil lamp with his palm and set it on the table _(box_ ), in his humble abode _(tent)._

Dorian stepped out of the shapeless, roughspun trousers. He smoothed out the crumpled black breeches as best he could and slid them on. Luckily, they were fitted enough that that the wrinkles barely showed. Next, he flung the simple tunic and itchy undershirt to the earthern floor. He was of a mind to  _burn_ them later. Dorian's plush black and green tunic had also become squashed in the journey. The emerald silk was a tragedy of wrinkles. As chilly as he was, Dorian used magic to heat and deftly smooth the worst of the creases. It was then while he was bare chested that he received an unexpected visit from Trevelyan.

       “Dorian,” the Herald dipped his head under the lopsided entrance to his tent, before noticing his half-dressed state. "Ugh... I - I should!" Trevelyan stammered, taking tiny steps backwards so he was already halfway out of the tent.

       _Vehendis! That blush..._

        "Don't be ridiculous." Dorian chided. "If you were so affected by bare skin, you would never have hired that that Qunari mercanary."

        "I... I'm not... affected!" Trevelyan stammered, his face burning an even deeper pink.

         "Clearly." Dorian said, swallowing the temptation to tease the young mage further. He found himself treading this ground very carefully. He did not want to scare Trevelyan away. That said, he took delight in taking longer to pull on his silk undershirt and tunic than was strictly necessary. By the time he had fastened the last of his buckles, Trevelyan's face was barely tinted. The young man stepped forward into the light but did not explain why he had come to visit Dorian.

       Under the lamp light, he noticed shadows etched heavily into Trevelyan’s features, chiselling him into a man that seemed much closer to Dorian’s age. In truth, Trevelyan was at least five years younger. He also noticed his wind tussled hair was chased with gold, before snapping back to the moment at hand.

       “So, you are here. The Herald! Twice in one day. To what do I owe this honour?”

       Trevelyan did not respond in like, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. Was he still embarrassed? He did not even remind Dorian to call him Trevelyan or Roycen, which was a little disappointing as his insistences were rather sweet.

       Trevelyan finally spoke in an official-sounding tone. “I hope you will forgive me but there is a further condition to your place in the Inquisition. I hope you will understand this is not my doing.”

       “No, don’t tell me. The Seeker wishes dearly to resume her duty as my own personal guard? She knows how to make a man feel important.”

       “Cassandra?” Trevelyan shook his head. “No, this is a condition of Leliana’s.”

       “Ah,” memories of the Spymaster’s honeyed tone bought a small shudder to his shoulders. “It is always the quiet ones to watch out for.”

       “Dorian, I am so sorry,” Trevelyan spoke to the floor. “There is no negotiation. Your staff... Useless, will be staying with me for a time.” Dorian noticed he had given up in his butchery of the Tevene, Mehdri. “I realise you are likely regretting your recent choices entirely. You are welcome to leave Haven if that is your wish. I understand that your experience must be leaving a lot to be desired.”

       It was true. Dorian had not expected the mistrust to run this deep. Yet if Dorian could turn back to three days prior, he would still have joined the Inquisition. It was that, or continue on his intoxicated circuits of Southern Thedas. The veneer of freedom had quickly gave way to the realisation that Dorian was leading an entirely hollow existence.

       But now he had a chance for true purpose, even if that meant enduring a little depravity. He swallowed the urge to point out that Trevelyan was surrounded by a flock of paranoid zealots, instead presenting his staff lengthways.

       “I regret many things, Roycen,” Dorian used the mage’s first name for the first time. “Treat her as you would your own and do not make me regret this.”

      “Of course,” Roycen assured him.

      _Or I will make sure you regret it_ , Dorian almost added.

       He handed the man his beloved smoke ash staff and made some remarks about needing a stiff drink. He did not suggest that Trevelyan join him. Indeed, he needed Trevelyan to leave before he could change his mind. The confiscation of his staff stank of the sort of control these Southerners liked to project in their damned Circles. Thankfully, the fellow mage could take a hint. He raised his cloudy green eyes sincerely to Dorian’s before disappearing back through the tent flap.

       Dorian had been brimming with the insolence of youth and success when his father presented him with the most remarkable staff. Smooth wood the colour of a thundercloud, a silverite leaf shaped base which was all the fashion in Qarinus. The silverite leaf tapered to a cruel point, reminding Dorian of the city guards' sharp staves. He had seen such weapons put to grisly use on disobedient slaves when grovelling was not enough. This resemblence did not detract from Dorian's appreciation. The most elegant detail of his staff was the serpent coiled at its tip. Dorian often took simple delight in rubbing his fingers over the perfect scales.

               The staff was his father’s gift following a string of successes as an apprentice under Magister Levus (the first mentor who had gained Dorian’s obedience). The proudest of his achievements was of course projecting magic without the need of a staff. Indeed, he was the youngest apprentice in Minrathous to adept in the notoriously difficult art. The beauty of the staff did not protect it from being dubbed Mehdri (useless). When Magister Pavus learned that Dorian had named the smoke-ash Mehdri, he revoked his gift for a month to Dorian’s despair. His staff was officially renamed Venox after that. Yet beyond the reach of his father’s ears, Mehdri lived on. It would be painful to part with his staff again, but not as heartbreaking as before. This time he had been given a choice. He had chosen to humour the Herald’s inner circle for a time, to play the long game and hope his moves pay off.

       Dorian found he no longer cared about the clothes he was to change into. He needed to lose himself in a bottle of something and it was not as if anyone in Haven’s tavern would have a modicum of dress sense. He changed as quickly as he ever had when not in mortal danger, pulling up dark breeches, slipping on the midnight blue tunic which left a shoulder bare, and deftly clasping his intricate belt and buckles. Next, a black quilted scarf, his silken cloak. He would usually have taken time to attend to his single pair of boots which were grubby with mud, but tonight he simply yanked them on and went in search of wine.

 

* * *

 

       When tomorrow came, the wizened serving man who was bringing around bowls of porridge explained to Dorian that the apothecary team would be leaving after lunch to collect deep mushrooms through the night.

       He was to report to Adan after breakfast for a full briefing. It was a good thing there would be a late start; he had a stinking hangover and the familiar aches that a night of rocky sex earned. Today had best not involve too much walking.

       Having been robbed of his staff, he had resorted to his usual solace. It pained Dorian to think that he had clean forgotten the man’s name. Memories of last night swilled languidly in and out of focus. He was definitely a mage. Creative with lightning magic. He shivered with pleasure on remembering the satisfying tingles the mage had coaxed around his thighs.

        A recollection of the mage's face thickened in his mind: _pale complexion, tangle of dark golden hair, young, lithe, eyes of blue- no... green?._.. Dorian gulped, deep in a shameful realisation. In a state of mindless inebriety he had thoroughly ravaged a poor copy of Trevelyan.

       Dorian fell back onto his pallet to process the information. _Exactly whose name had he cried in the heat of the moment?_

      Dorian contemplated, but eventually someone would come looking for him. He yawned, stretching like a cat, and slung on some clothes. The morning porridge was left to congeal on the box it had been set upon. He had yet to indulge in that charming Southern tradition of eating warm, non-descript mush for breakfast. He ventured out in into the cold morning in search of something more palatable. Surely the Herald himself would have better fare, or could direct him to a cook who could whip up something a little less Southern.

 

* * *

 

      

        Roycen was beginning to adjust to the fact that he would never again have the luxury of being insignificant. Although Leliana and Josephine had tried their best to paint a picture of their Herald as a human guided by Andraste (as if that was not enough) many openly worshipped him as an embodiment of the Maker himself. And him a mage! Although Roycen’s belief in the Maker was firmly instilled from birth, he had no illusions that if the Maker, or Indeed Andraste had any say in this, they would not have picked him. Yes, the anchor was a gift – there was no way on Thedas that he was the one who was supposed to emerge from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The gift was meant for someone else, someone who had died at the Conclave. It didn’t surprise Roycen one bit that even the Maker’s plan could go awry. It was much more surprising that Cassandra, Solas and all the others did not dismiss him as a mistake from the start.

       Roycen squeezed out a yawn, startling the little elven girl who had come to change the water in his wash basin. Yesterday’s water gushed over the earthen floor of his tent. With a petrified squeak, the girl flapped back through the tent hangings, to be replaced by a black robed arm. Dorian. He entered the tent fully and let the heavy cloth fall behind him.

       “Well now. Who knew the shining Herald of Andraste likes to scare little elves and get his feet muddy of a morning.”

Roycen raised his arms, starting his usual morning stretches and ignoring the bait. “Good morning, Dorian. Shouldn’t you be meeting Adan? He has work for you.”

       “Yes, yes. I will present myself anon. Now, I don’t mean to intrude on your morning paddle, but there is the urgent matter of breakfast.” Dorian stepped lightly around the spreading water. His boots looked expensive.

       He continued stretching while Dorian ranted about how the mere concept of porridge was an insult to his taste buds. Dorian would not be able to avoid that ‘Southerner's slop’ as he referred to it, forever. However, Roycen did feel guilty about confiscating the mage’s staff and saw no harm in breaking off a chunk off his own honey bread. It was still warm and dripping with butter. They always brought him too much anyway.

       As Dorian took a delicate bite and hummed approval, Roycen could not help watching the mage out of the corner of his eye. He described the incident with the elf a moment ago, mainly to distract him from the sight of Dorian sucking honey from his long fingers.The older mage listened patiently while Roycen spoke.

       “I thought the people would become more... adjusted.” Roycen sighed. “Start to see me as a person as well as Herald, yet the rate of things being dropped because of my immediate presence seems to be increasing. Am I really that terrifying?”

       Dorian gulped down the last mouthful of bread in his rush to reply. “When compared to my fearsome self, hardly.” Dorian's pale grey eyes twinkled proudly, “but otherwise, yes. You are truly terrifying, Herald Trevelyan. Being the voice of a deity will do that, you know. They fear you might smite them down for their sins!”

       “Yet they believe me for their saviour...” Roycen tried to reason.

       “And they know you for a mage.” Dorian asserted.

        A long look of shared experience passed between them. Roycen found an unexpected sadness clouding Dorian’s pale grey eyes. He resisted the urge to broach the space between them, to _do_ something that would break Dorian's pained expression. 

        “How do you manage?” Roycen finally managed.

        If Dorian had been caught in melancholy, no one would know it now. His voice exuded authority and confidence. “Ignore the ones who twitch as if struck by chain lightning. They will likely never question the night tales and histories which warn against the terror of our kind. Personally, I like to flatten the others with flattery. It can become a most... effectual magic. Speaking of which-” he gestured to the sodden floor. “-a humble ‘thank you’ for the breakfast.”

       “I doubt you could ever pull off humble.” Roycen quipped, by now unfazed by the Tevinter’s cynical way of speaking. His curiosity was piqued though; what was Dorian intending to do without use of his staff?

       “Oh, fine,” Dorian huffed. “You have me. You will find this most impressive. Watch.”

       Roycen completely expected Dorian to reach for his smoke ash and silverite staff, which was tucked alongside Roycen’s own. It struck him as odd that the Tevinter had only spared it a glance since his arrival. But even stranger still, Dorian now ignored _Useless_ completely.

       Roycen froze mid stretch as Dorian began to slowly pace, muttering softly in Tevene, hands moving delicately in complex shapes. The squish-squelch of his long strides gurgled into hissing as the earth hardened around his boots. Roycen could feel the prickle of heat as the spilled water hissed and evaporated.

       This should not be possible.

        All mages could perform magic without the use of a staff or similar focus tool. However, the magic would be severely limited and could only be projected along the mage’s skin or, with more difficulty, a held object. It was nigh impossible to project intense magical energy without a staff, as Dorian was achieving with apparent ease. Sure, even a barely adept mage could cast a wisp of mage fire to light a torch with their palm... but not direct enough mana to evaporate a puddle.

       Steam was starting to rise through the tent. Roycen tried his best to hide his fascination, but it was impossible. His eyes became saucers as he watched the Tevinter mage at work. He could feel the prickle of heat on his hands from the column of heat before him, enough to fizzle even the last remaining drops of scummy water. The warmth of Dorian’s magic washed over Roycen like a wave.

       Roycen’s younger self would be tugging at the Tevinter mage’s robes right about now with a dozen questions on his lips. Instead, he felt as if he had swallowed moths in the night which were only now seeking escape. There was no denying that the man was amazing.

       “I...uhm... der,” Roycen said.

    _That’s not even words!_

       He tried to get a grip on himself, pretending he was still in the Ostwick Circle, that it was finally his turn to speak to that season’s visiting mage. He had never had problems articulating himself in those moments, as those behind him in the line could sorely testify.

       Instead, he reached for Dorian’s staff, Useless, offering it to him by the cruelly tapered base. Dorian cupped the coiled snake which topped the staff and stroked the smoke ash fondly, whispering softly as if caressing a lover.

       It was like Roycen was no longer present in his own tent. He was not enjoying the feeling.

       The words finally came, but Roycen’s voice was higher than he wanted.

       “Dorian,” the mage returned his attention to Roycen. “I... must admit that it is refreshing to witness magic as yet unknown to me. I hope that you would be willing to provide further demonstration sometime, when Adan is not in need of you, that is.”

       Roycen thought the Tevinter caught the anxiety in his tone but he could not be certain.

       “Our Herald, let no one say he does not cut straight to the arrow. I will have you know that this, “he gestured to the bone-dry earth, “Was simply a taste of my abilities. You will find my further demonstrations captivating, I am sure. Although I do hope you do not wish to relieve me of all of my secrets.”

       Roycen knew that the Tevinter was a shameless show-off, but couldn’t help but thinking he was laying it on a bit thick. Time to take him down a notch.

       “No, Dorian. You may keep the secrets of your wardrobe.” The mage’s sly grin spurred him on. “Although you could do with learning some memory techniques. I could swear only yesterday I told you to call me Roycen.”

       “And of course I must do ‘as I am told’, lest you sneak up on me again with those wicked daggers.” He held his staff across his chest defensively and winked playfully.

       “Thank you for the reminder. I recall how you would tell me the tale of how Useless came by that name, if I get you again.”

       “Ah, dear _Mehdri_. Darnation, I did, didn’t I? Fool me.” Dorian jutted the earth with his staff’s tapered spike, before placing it back to rest beside Roycen’s knarlwood. “But I digress, I have a date with the apothecary. One has to make a striking first impression, so I am aiming for fashionably late rather than boorishly so.”

       Roycen found himself watching with fascination as Dorian brushed a crumb of bread delicately from his breast. “And my thanks for the bread,” Dorian added, turning on his heel. “I wouldn’t say no if a loaf found its way into my tent of a morning.”

       The moths in Roycen’s stomach flapped in earnest. He wanted very much to say that Dorian was excused from having to forage for the apothecary, that they should spend the morning discussing magical theory, or anything, really. But Roycen knew that the most effective way for Dorian to gain public trust was for him to have duties like everyone else. _Even if he was not in any way like everyone else._

       “It would be wise not to even try ‘fashionably late’ with our Adan.” Roycen cautioned. “He runs a tight operation and is very handy with a pair of shears.”

       “Now you tell me!” Dorian exclaimed, aghast. “I shall just have to blame you for my tardiness, and hope that the fear of invoking the wrath of Andraste is enough to stay his shears.”

       “Best get going then.” Roycen suggested.

        When Dorian had left, he made a note to speak to the cook about alternative breakfast arrangements for Dorian. It felt good to be able to do something at least.

        Now if only he could get the fluttering in his chest to stop.

 

 


	7. Never Enough Elfroot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian embarks on some manual labour. The Iron Bull has made a bet with Krem.

**Never Enough Elfroot**

        Adan the apothecary sent one of his twiggy elven assistants to call on him, or rather, squeak at him in a voice as slight as he was. The boy eventually mastered his tongue enough to tell his name, “Aribel,” and that Master Adan _commanded_ that Dorian dress for travelling immediately and present himself at the stables. If Dorian were in a fouler mood, he might have put on an appalled expression at the thought of being _commanded_ anywhere, informing the boy where Adan could go stick his vials. But of course, the bushel-beared apothecary was probably waiting for any excuse to be rid of him. No, he would not give Adan the satisfaction.

        During their brief meeting yesterday, it was very clear to Dorian that he was below even the apothecary’s contempt. To Adan, he was nothing more than a pampered noble who had never done a hard day’s work. While this was more true than Dorian cared to admit, he would be damned if he could not do at least as well in his new duties as the handful of elves working to supply the healing tents with Elfroot. He donned his most pleasant smile and assured Aribel that he would be along presently. The stiff-shouldered elf must have been holding his breath for Dorian’s response, for he let out a relieved puff before squeaking some word of farewell and sprinting back to the apothecary hut.

        Dorian wasted no time. He ducked around in his leather saddle bag, producing an exquisite, yet sturdy pair of gloves – fennec fur and sand mamba scale. He yearned sorely for his tall boots and woollen scarf, but the scout Dorian had charged with delivering his clothing chests was still somewhere in the Hinterlands, days away.

        An hour's ride into the Hinterlands, the team dismounted and set about their task: picking elfroot leaves, storing the medicinal leaves in green jars and the edible roots in hessian bags. Dorian crouched down to collect with the confidence that he would be more effective than Adan at least, who was approaching the winter of his life. By midday, the mage was fuming at the fiddly nature of their work - not that he would ever admit this to Adan, who was easily storing twice his number of elfroot leaves into tightly packed jars.

        The apothecary spoke rarely through his bushy beard other than to bark, “Get to it!” at a likely new site and “Move on!” when the pickings became thin. The aged apothecary’s arms moved surprisingly quickly through the tall summer grass, as did those of his assistants. All except for Dorian. He was grateful his tunic bore only one full sleeve; the other was being slowly butchered by thorns. Even the elfroot leaves were razor sharp at the edges, as his swollen fingertips could sorely testify. Adan and his apprentices had the hands for it, going about their work un-gloved. Dorian could not suppress a small shudder noticing the stretched calluses that blistered Adan's scarred,  leathery fingers, the inevitable legacy of so many thorns and sharp leaves.

        He had little to keep him going. Yet there was a crumb of triumph in knowing how degrading this sort of work would be to his father, Magister Halward Pavus. Like so many Altus, his father enforced the ‘natural order’ with a cold efficiency, which of course meant _servus,_ (slaves) attending to any labours their masters required.

        In the Tevinter vision of supreme society, _servus_ were essential commodities, their value distinguished only by their usefulness and any rare traits. Some of the ancient families liked to uphold the tradition of ‘branding’ to mark their _servus_ easily apart from others: some decorated with black and white khol, some pierced with golden studs or fat jewels... The most memorable for Dorian were the _servus_ of house Villos, who had had their ring fingers amputated. His father explained that the Villos’ were renowned breeders, the mutilation an important reminder to their _stock_ that they would never choose a partner or wear their ring of commitment. Other than the iron band around their necks, of course.

        Dorian experienced a twang of sympathy for the  _servus_ who had been tasked with clearing dragonthorn from the Pavus estate's lower gardens. They had gone about the task with hands clad in roughspun wraps. Dorian remembered being asked to check on their progress, the revulsion on seeing the _servus_ red to their elbows. Dorian's father, to his credit, whithdrew the Servus on hearing their sordid condition. Another Magister might have deemed the _servus_ in perfect condition for a blood ritual. As such, grubbing about in the long grass, Dorian's foresight of packing snakeskin gloves was all in vain. The gloves now decorated his belt, elfroot leaves having proved too fragile to pick at the base of the leaf while wearing them. Adan had gone so far as to crush the first handful of torn leaves which he had collected back into the grass with his sandal, so poor was his attempt.

        Meanwhile Adan’s experienced assistants crouched-hopped their way through the undergrowth with ease, nipping Elfroot leaves deftly at their base. He imagined that the herb was growing more thickly than usual in this particular spot, when one of the elves commented that this swathe of valley had been cleared of a beast of a rift only last week, which of course meant a glut of Elfroot. _Marvellous._

        Even though Dorian had not uttered a single sentence of complaint the whole day, Adan was frowning behind his beard all the way back to Haven. Their yield was not nearly enough, and he blamed a certain mage for the shortfall. Gruffly accusing Dorian of lacking in motivation, once through Haven's gates Adan directed him with delivering the day’s jars of elfroot to the healers’ tents. Another elf, Fen, snickered that Dorian would need to deal with Matron Primselle’s wrath.

_An antagonised woman. Just what he needed._

        He should have braced himself to deal with Matron Primselle’s bosoms. The voluminous flush-faced woman practically pressed Dorian against the tent canvas having examined the day’s haul.

        Her words came out in a hissing rush like kettle steam. “What d’you think I can do with this! Hmm? Nug got your tongue, hmm? Fifty new patients today and nary a mage in this stinkhole with any talent in...” She finally paused to draw a huge breath, scrutinising Dorian’s face as if seeing who he was for the first time. He took the opportunity to slink sideways, ducking under her huge breasts. “You’re the Tevinter.”

        “I much prefer Dorian,” he replied, edging further away from the matron.

       “I don’t suppose you’ve any practice setting bones, hmm? Sealing wounds? Purifying infection?”

        “Not among my many talents, I’m afraid.” he admitted.

        That did it. There was no stopping the woman in her rant on the worthlessness of mages, her lack of provisions, the woe of being in charge of such a farce. Through the whole of it the matron hardly seemed to need to breathe. Just when he thought he had edged beyond the woman's reach, she wrapped a meaty fist around Dorian’s elbow, explaining how he owed her one due to their poor crop of elfroot today, and may as well be of some use now that he was here.

        “At least I know you won’t shy from blood! Hmm, Tevinter?” she jested in poor taste, shoving him bodily through a tent that was as far away from the matron’s as was possible. A smear of black tent marked the tent for what it was _: t_ _he place where no one wanted to end up._

        The first thing that struck him was the sickly, metallic stench of wounds gone bad. He had expected the Inquisition to be running a smooth operation since acquiring the Grand Enchanter Fiona’s mages at Redcliffe. But it transpired that one could count on a single hand the number of mages who were confident in the healing arts. When Fiona and Trevelyan agreed the mage’s support to help close the breach, the Inquisition’s Inner Circle had assumed that all of the Hinterlands mages were based in or around Redcliffe. Unfortunately, around a hundred or so mages were in various outposts spanning the length and breadth of the vast, forested district. Fiona estimated it would be a couple of weeks for the bands of mages to receive word and travel to Haven.

        Meanwhile, the refugees were pouring in thicker than flies on a corpse. All seeking refuge were weakened, many injured, malnourished or both. The worst affected were the survivors of demon attacks from the numerous rifts which the Breach had created. The handful of mage healers focused their efforts on those patients, as wounds inflicted by demons would often be stubborn to heal. Having mainly been responsible for passing equipment to those who could actually help, Dorian eventually emerged in a daze from the emergency tent, to the sound of a heated argument outside.

        A clearly drunk, sandy-haired soldier had been dragged to the healer’s tents by a sergeant whose face was plum from the spectacular display of cursing. It transpired that the inebriated soldier had come across his injury by arm wrestling with the Qunari mercenary captain known as the Iron Bull. The soldier was tended to by a jittery woman with a tangle of red hair. She attempted to heal the fracture with magic, but accidently ripped the bone, causing a full break. The erupting scream brought memories of home fizzing to Dorian's conscious. Recovering his composure as much as possible, he discreetly fled the medical camp and resolved himself to be more dutiful in his elfroot gathering from now on.

 

* * *

 

        Up until now, all fifth day had meant to Dorian was the taverns and inns were a little rowdier, the regular clientele seasoned with a peppering of common folk enjoying their day of rest. Dorian had never looked forward to fifth day the way he had during this last week of slogging in the dirt. He lowered his aching body carefully onto a low log, stretching his legs towards the prickling heat of the fire pit. _Oblivion_ , did his calves ache. The fire would help. A tapestry of pink nicks and scratches overran his fingers. The frequent touch of elfroot meant he felt no pain _there_ at least, but there was no herb in the world that could recover his skin. Only time would tell if he would bear scars. As proud as he was, Dorian could not trouble Haven’s healers over the matter. He had seen enough of Matron Primselle’s bosoms to last him a lifetime. He had also seen that the number of refugees pouring into Haven was only increasing and was not so arrogant that he believed he deserved medical attention more than they did.

        A rough, half-familiar voice broke his reverie. The Qunari? They had not yet had the pleasure of meeting. His Tevinter lieutenant, Krem, however had been a most pleasant surprise. The Iron Bull's Chargers seemed as unbiased as the Inquisition itself when it came to recruitment: skill over provenance.

        “Would you like me to lick it better, Vint? It is tradition for a single request to be honoured before redeeming a blood debt.”

 _Vint... blood debt?_ Perhaps Dorian had gravely misjudged The Iron Bull's position on Tevinters.

        Before Dorian could answer, The Iron Bull clapped Dorian's back, knocking the wind from his lungs. “Tell me _Vint._ How many of my brethren have you slain,” his teeth clacked at Dorian’s ear. The words strengthened to a growl, “and I will tell you in how many pieces you will be delivered to your _Vint_ father.”

        “He might rather like that, actually! Once he got over the initial offence to house Pavus.” Dorian quipped, shifting casually along the log. _This had to be a jest, surely._   “But I digress... I regret to inform you that The Iron Bull has been gravely misinformed. For all my talents, I am a veritable paradigm of peace between our people. Your lieutenant will tell you the same.”

        The Iron Bull snorted. It might have been laughter but who knew with these brutes? Dorian immediately wished he had used smaller words.

        “Krem told me plenty, now you try to save your pretty _Vint_ face.” He bared his teeth in what might have been a grin, before narrowing his eyes in obvious hatred. “But the Qun is clear on the duty to claim blood debt.” At this, the Iron Bull let out one almighty snort. Dorian felt something _wet_ settle in his hair _._

 _Kaffas,_ he did not need this!

        Charming a bloodthirsty Qunari was not one of his practiced talents. Could it even be done? Perhaps smaller words and repetition would do the trick.

        “I realise you are honour-bound. This is not a problem. There is _no_ debt to pay, for I have not slain _any of your kin._ None. _Nihil._ _Numquam!_ Never have. Never will. _”_

        “All Qun know that male _Vint_ of the high houses must slay a Quanari in single combat to ascend to manhood. You are a man, are you not?”

 _Depends who you ask_ , Dorian almost said, but that would not do. There was also little point explaining that Bull's theory of this bloody rite of passage was another false myth regarding his homeland. Dorian had come to realise during his time at Haven that the South was full of ‘facts’ about Tevinter which were utter druffallo shit. As every tale sang of fear and might, he almost suspected the Imperium approved and openly circulated some of them.

        All Dorian could do was bluff vehemently. Finally, something he was thoroughly qualified in. “A man, mage, _late_ of Tevinter? You have me. Bloodied Qunari slayer? No. You see, I never could condone to mindless violence. I fled my homeland on the very cusp of manhood, rather than be forced into innocent slaughter. There is absolutely _no blood debt_.” he impounded. “You need not lick my fingers,” he added for good measure.

        But the Qunari cracked his knuckles menacingly. “You lie, Vint. I am Ben-Hassrath.” His knuckles squeezed into twin hammers. “Underestimate me again, you _die_. HOW MANY?” He stood to glower over Dorian, horns blocking out the moonlight.

        Dorian was hardly aware what words were coming out of him. “NONE! I have killed no Qunari! But I know that if you presume to _kill_ me, my father's rage will fuel the war to new atrocities. And no, it is not what you think. The man couldn’t care less if I ended up a well-dressed corpse in some fly-ridden swamp. But he _would_ kill your people in the thousands, for the honour of his house and country.” Dorian had ended up standing too. The gesture meant little as he barely reached the Qunari's chest. 

        “Damn,” the Iron Bull grunted from above, "that was the truth. And I owe Krem five silvers."

        Dorian stood on the log he had recently vacated, bringing him almost at level with the Qunari. "You put my dignity at stake for the sake of a wager?" he demanded.

        "If I was allowed to touch you, I'd have won. No question."

         Dorian's head was reeling. What in Maker's name was the nature of this bet? The Iron Bull refused to say and left Dorian to stew on the log once more.

         When Dorian could finally no longer smell Qunari, he looked up to notice none other than Herald Trevelyan peering at him from another log across from the fire.

_What must the man think of him?_

        He tried to casually fix his hair, but there was no disguising that his usually immaculate appearance was marred with Qunari spittle. With one leg tucked under the other, Trevelyan was a picture of nonchalant youth. All except for his face of course, which wore a frown of concern.

        “I would ask if you are alright,” Trevelyan stated, “But it’s obvious that you have had a rough week.” The care Dorian heard in Trevelyan’s voice was warming. This tugged at something he had been meaning to ask the young mage. Something he failed to understand despite long analysis when sleep failed him.

        “I’ve had worse.” Dorien replied honestly. “But If I may,” he began uncertainly. Trevelyan gave a nod, stirring the fire with a stick, “why did you lie for me... about me?” he backtracked. Trevelyan seemed unable to place the moment. Was there more than _one_ occasion where this honourable Herald had lied on his behalf?

        Dorian clarified for him, “When justifying my worth to Cassandra, you said I healed your leg in the time fold. We both know that didn’t happen. Neither of us is that proficient in healing magic.”

        “Oh, that.” The young mage poked his stick about a bit more, sparking a cloud of embers to rise between them. “I suppose it’s a bit like why you were just lying to Bull,” he sighed. “Sometimes there is so much learned _nonsense_ gritting a person’s judgement that no ordinary amount of good can outweigh their concerns. The Bull knew you had revoked Tevinter, that you are no longer a part of their customs, yet he could only assume the worst. But, paint the perfect picture, and the accuser might slip the mask of prejudice, perhaps enough to discover the person behind the perceptions. Cassandra was blinkered by all that she feared you to be, so I helped paint her a better picture.”

        “I’d like to think I already paint a pretty picture,” Dorian teased.

        In truth, he had not expected that the young, scruffy mage could speak so eloquently. Yet this still did not answer, _why_ Trevelyan himself had lied on _his_ behalf. The man seemed to sense his conflict. “Dorian, you are not the only one around here who values your skin. Speaking of which...”

        Dorian felt Trevelyan look him over entirely, felt the gaze linger on his scabbed fingers. Dorian's whole being coiled tightly, as if he were prey in the moment of deciding whether to fight or flight. It was not a feeling he was accustomed to.

         “...I have been meaning to talk to you about whether you would be willing to offer instruction in the arts of Inferno magic and perhaps some other branches of offensive magic. My efforts pale in comparison to your skill here. I need to learn, and quickly. Naturally, there are plenty of mages in Haven now who could offer instruction, if you would rather carry on with Adan...” Trevelyan smirked knowingly, running his pale hand smoothly through his rich golden hair.

        “Oh,” the tension sunk from Dorian’s body as suddenly as it had built there. He saw the request for what it truly was. The beginnings of trust (and an escape from elfroot leaves). He sprung from the log with all the energy he could manage and dipped into a gracious bow. “Why of course, I thought you would never ask. Although I might be needing that _Useless_ staff of mine.”

        “It’s settled then. Would mornings be agreeable? Each fifth day off.”

        They hammered out the remaining details. They would begin in two days. Trevelyan would inform Adan and find a suitable replacement. Dorian found himself caring very little that he was so easily replaced.

        Once all was done, Dorian initiated a farewell. He wanted to waste no time in compiling a plan of the most suitable spells to cover. "Peace of the night to you, Herald. I will expect you fully rested for your first session.”

        “ _Herald?_ I didn’t know you had converted,” the young man quipped. “It may be less blasphemous to call me by my name, if you will.”

        “Trevelyan,” Dorian uttered with care.

        “Or Roycen,” the young man suggested, and not for the first time. "You used my first name once, it wouldn't hurt to continue the habit."

        “Roycen, then. Good night!” He turned from the man, feeling lighter than he had since the week began.


	8. Mystery of the Missing Breeches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sera and Roycen are up to no good. Pranking is even better when the victim has such an obvious weakness.
> 
> WARNING: Reference to trichotillomania, an impulse disorder.

**Mystery of the Missing Breeches**

                Dorian opened his eyes in the pre-dawn to find a single boot being poked at his chest. The odd, giggly elf Sera was the culprit and Dorian did not like at all the glitter in her amber eyes or that crooked smirk.

                “Mage-face!” she blurted into his still-yawning mouth. “Not so scary when yer all half-sleepy, y’know. ”

                “Sera,” he snatched the boot from her fingers, realising that it was one his own – the scout must finally have returned with his cases. Yet, it seemed that he had been intercepted...

                “Might I ask where the rest of my clothing is?” he asked patiently. To Dorian’s alarm, the elf sprung down onto his bedroll and took his face in her thin hands.

                “Woudn’t yeh like to know mage-face? Hee.”

                He pulled her hand from his chin, irritation quickly forming into frustration. “I _much_ prefer Dorian. As for my clothes, Sera? Maker knows I haven’t interfered with your plaid weave leggings and mustard tunics. I have silks in those cases that are worth more than everything you have ever worn put together.”

                The elf shot up and strutted about the tent with her hands on her hips. “My fancy clothes, my pretty little silky things.” she impersonated in a whiney voice nothing like his own, before returning to her usual breathless tone. “Yer silkies are just things. What about _people_ , yeah? Yer a big, scary Tevinter mage-face. And wha’s the first thing yeh go do? Bully some _small person_ into nearly killing their horse to death, so yeh can have yer precious silkies quick as yeh like. YEAH?” Sera had gotten closer and closer until her nose practically touched Dorian’s. He had never seen eyes so wild on a person unpossessed by a demon.

_Venhedis Kaffas!_ He had paid the scout double for speed of delivery, what was Sera’s issue? Alright, he might have implied that he would hunt down the boy should he run off with his valuables, but that was simple prudence! He had hardly threatened the boy with blood magic. Dorian figured there would be no arguing any of this with the uncivilised elf though.

                He leaned back on his bedroll as much as possible and tried a humble approach. “You are quite right, Sera. I could have presented myself with a touch more decorum. I will find the boy and commend his speedy return with silver as soon as I am dressed. All will be happy. Although, that would require _my clothes._ I see yesterday’s tunic and breeches are also in your possession. _”_ Sera’s pale face was scruched as if in scrutiny. “Did I mention that I’m awfully sorry?” Dorian added for good measure.

                Sera’s scrunched concentration erupted into a fit of giggles which went on longer than any sane person’s should. “I knew yeh’d be sorry, right,” she breathed between her fits, “so I gave away some _gifts_ , right!” She flashed a pair of Dorian's cream smallclothes – _where had she been hiding those?_ – and claimed, “These ones are a gift to me, yeah!” Wearing only his nightshirt and shorts, Dorian leaped up after the fleeing elf, but she was too quick. The trickster brandished his cream smallclothes like a flag before disappearing from view.

                Huffing and cursing, he retreated back to his tent to find a scrap of parchment on his box. It was scrawled in a large, lopsided print in brazen red letters.

_The Chargers get through breeches_

_The stables bought some boots_

_A drunkard wanted cloaking_

_Smith smelts silverite_

_The herald stole the others, his Chantry pants don’t fit!_

                Dorian ran as if pursued by demons straight to the smithy, who eventually understood what he was trying to say between his breathless gasps. His belts and shirt buckles were all still intact. The smithy revealed that they were never in danger of being melted down, but that Sera had promised him a queer sight. The smith bent over almost double, bellowing heartily that he had not been disappointed as Dorian sulkily fastened two of his belts around his middle and looped the shirt straps over one shoulder.

               The further requisitioning of his missing belongings was fairly simple. Some of his breeches had been draped unceremoniously over the doors of the tavern rooms belonging to the Bull’s Chargers (though thankfully not the Bull's himself) and downstairs he recovered a cloak from the note's promised drunkard who was either unconscious or dead at his table. Dorian plucked his prize without checking which was the case. Finding himself nearly presentable, lacking only a proper tunic, he dashed a circuit around the rest of Haven in search of Roycen, who was clearly in on the farce.

                An hour later. No luck.

                Dorian painstakingly retraced his steps at a more moderate pace. Nothing.

                Grumbling to himself, he dropped of his bundle of spare breeches and accessories at his tent, before resuming the mission. He shuffled aimlessly about Haven in his ankle boots, looking high and low for the darned mage. Nothing. Where he asked after Roycen, he received a cacophony of conflictions: stables, quartermaster’s table, the tavern, rookery, the tavern again. Yet wherever Roycen was, the only thing he knew for sure was that the man was not where Dorian happened to be. Nor did any more of his clothing appear on his travels. He was still missing the contents of most of the three chests. Dorian ran through the places everyone had told him that Roycen would be, when it struck him of a place that had not once cropped up. _The Chantry._ Dorian picked up his pace, taking the worn stone steps two at a time.

                Haven’s Chantry was deceptively modest from the outside. In fact, the building was the roomiest by far in Haven, made even more expansive by the myriad underground chambers and passages. He began his decent down a narrow, unlit stairway. The small light cast in his palm barely touched the enveloping darkness.

                Dorian was wandering the damp, chilling Chamber of Penance when he noticed a something tied to the bars of the furthest cell. His second tall boot! He detached it with deft hands and held the boot against its partner, which he had carried twice around Haven. He flicked off his worn ankle boots and swapped for the fresh pair gratefully.

               The note had mentioned nothing about cells or the Chantry... Trevelyan had to be close.

               That was when something bowled into his shoulder. An arm appeared from nowhere to stop him from crashing to the stone floor.

 

* * *

 

                Roycen and Sera had come to an eventual understanding when it came to pranking. Sera would now limit her pranks amongst members of the Inquisition to a single occurrence, but only if Roycen helped with the preparations where required. This suited them both.

         In truth, Roycen had taken a guilty pleasure in his small involvements so far. He had become accustomed to listening out for Sera's subtle whisper in between everyday conversation, informing him of the time and place of her next victim’s ‘attack’. He made sure never to miss such events if he could help it.

        Roycen felt almost _normal_ with the giggly, carefree elf and it was a sweet thing to pretend that there was nothing more important than the success of an upcoming prank. For the rest of the Inquisition, refugees, soldiers and his Inner Circle alike, the ever present threat of the Breach was an unforgiving burden, shifting perspectives of those in its shadow. The rip in the Fade turned farmers into unwitting soldiers, drew fervent prayers from lifetime sceptics and drove everite resolve into those who felt they could make a difference. Sera seemed the only person who may have remained unaffected since the Breach erupted.

                As Roycen spotted Sera leaning languidly against the well, he couldn’t help his jaw dropping. She had draped about her body a gaudy array of scarves. They flapped in a confused tangle of colour around her scrawny arms, giving her the appearance of a mythical bird. On closer scrutiny, there could only be one person in all of Haven those scarves would belong to. It would seem Dorian’s dearly-awaited clothing delivery had been intercepted.

                Sera flashed him a grin sharper than his daggers as she noticed him. Once Sera had revealed her plan in full, Roycen found himself wearing a similarly ridiculous smile. If their plan succeeded, Dorian would soon regret that he had mocked Roycen’s leathers quite so scathingly. Roycen expected this would be the most fun he has had in ages.

 

* * *

 

                Roycen stood still in the shadows, clad in a pair of Dorian’s breeches, and what had looked to be the Tevinter’s most ornate black and gold tunic. It hung a little loosely on his shoulders - evidence of the older mage's more muscular build, and the altered left sleeve left one arm bare. This was an odd trait shared by all of Dorian’s tailored shirts and tunics.

                After a time, his victim finally appeared in the gloom. Roycen pressed himself against the wall of the cell he was occupying, hoping the mage would see his boot hanging from the far cell and pass him by. Listening to Dorian’s unadulterated delight on locating his boot was oddly satisfying. He felt a flood of heat in his chest, despite the chill of the underground chamber. Thinking he would not get a better chance, Roycen bundled into the mage with precision, just enough to make him stumble.

                The flame that Dorian had been harbouring in his palm guttered out on the impact. Roycen found the mage's outline and snuck up close to him. “That, Dorian, was not a fluke,” Roycen whispered with glee. He was pleased to see the mage stunned into silence, his breathing erratic from the shock. Roycen produced a pale, yellow glow from the head of his knarlwood staff. In the yellow light, Dorian’s eyes were tinted the colour of molten honey and glazed with disbelief.

                “I... you... Roycen! My clothes!” Dorian’s hands reached out to trace the gold embellishments of his tunic. To Roycen's alarm, Dorian  clutched the black velveteen, pulling Roycen towards him in a quick movement. “My clothes-” he continued, “-rather suit you, actually.” He pulled Roycen further still, their chests almost touching.

                Roycen tried to move, but it was impossible. "I..." he began, but speaking too was beyond him as he felt Dorian's fingers tighten the hold on his tunic. If Roycen did not know how much the older mage valued his clothes, he might have feared Dorian would rip them off.

                The glow atop Roycen's staff flickered wanly. He was close enough to smell the citrusy smoke of the mage and something sweet... cinammon?

                A long moment passed before Dorian released his grip on Roycen to ghost his fingers over the fading magelight. The glow intensified threefold. Dorian's eyes were liquid fire where the light struck.

                Roycen felt a moment of inexplicable weakness as Dorian took a long stride backwards, assessing him with predatory eyes. “If you wanted lessons in dressing to please, you need only have asked, you know. I would have introduced you to my master tailor.”

                “I'm good thanks," Roycen got out. "Bit too fancy for me. Don't these catch?" He flicked at the tunic's metallic embellishments. Dorian looked amused, which only spurned Roycen on. "Sera and I were looking to introduce you to humility, looks like we’ll have to try harder next time.” he retorted, half turning to present Dorian with a better view of his stolen attire.

                Dorian made a noise suspiciously like a groan, before swooping in close once more. “That show would be much more impressive if your hair were not tangled in my buckles.”

                Roycen looked down and saw it was true. He lifted a hand to try and free his hair, when Dorian tapped his fingers away. “Ah-ah, best if I. Practiced hands, you see.” He wiggled his fingers before getting to work.

               Roycen's chest was tight with dread. He began to shirk away in to protest, but it was too late. Dorian paused on his scalp, frowning the question which Roycen did not want to answer. Could not answer.

               At that moment, the mage’s fingers were circling the bald stretch of skin below his ear where hair should have been. _Would have been, if Roycen had not pulled it out._ Roycen felt powerless to stop him as Dorian’s fingers continued to the nape of his neck, finding the smaller, downy patches that were always so well hidden behind the rest of his shoulder length hair. Dorian's fingers resumed their intricate journey, smoothing through the pulled areas and riffling the 'normal' hair at an even pace.

               The sensation was completely new to Roycen. Everyone who had ‘found’ his patches before had recoiled their hand in revulsion, averted their eyes, fell mute with confusion. Or _disgust_. Dorian did none of these things, threading his fingers gently yet thoroughly around his head as if seeking the answers that Roycen was not giving.

                As Dorian fingers smoothed through the much larger bald patch on his right side, he finally removed his fingers.

                “How long?” Dorian asked. _Had he seen this before? Roycen was sure he was alone..._

                “Since the Harrowing,” Roycen answered stiffly.

                “Of course it is.” Dorian sighed, his pale grey eyes simmering with unidentifiable emotion. It was not disgust, of that much Roycen was sure. He felt a bud of relief.

                “I would appreciate if this remained unsaid,” Roycen murmured.

                Dorian nodded, clasping Roycen’s shoulders so that he was forced to look at him. “Why, I was practically raised on secrets. I will not breathe a word." He looked into Roycen’s eyes sincerely. “Although I cannot help but lament when a man is destroying his best asset, whatever the reason.”

                “Watch it, or I’ll soon be destroying yours.” Roycen quipped weakly, feeling a bit more himself.

                “Oh, and which of my assets do you consider to be my best? I am complimented on so many.”

                It was time to turn the tables. Roycen hated this vulnerable feeling and he happened to be wearing some leverage. “Your choice in smallclothes,” he claimed, tapping his belt and throwing a smirk at Dorian's perplexed expression.

                Dorian stuttered, completely taken aback. “I d-don’t believe for one moment that—”

                Roycen’s hand nipped down below his waist to flash a strip of silky red. “I remember what you said in the Hinterlands about my smallclothes being unsuitable, so decided to take your advice. And I meant what I said. Keep my secret close... or you will never see these smallclothes again.”

               “Oh, I couldn’t bear that.” Dorian’s eyes widened further with the idea that Roycen would be hanging on to his scarlet smallclothes. The older mage adopted a sly smile. “ _I also_ mean what I said before. 'My clothes rather suit you.' Why, you _could_ cut quite the striking figure... with a few alterations, of course.” He waved a hand languidly at the droop of his garment around Roycen’s shoulders.

                Roycen found himself fully in control of his confidence once more. “You might also remember that you were under the impression I couldn't sneak up on you again.”

                “Indeed, a greivous error!” Dorian admitted. "I thought I would sense you. Mages are usually as loud as a herd of Druffallo. But you-" he flicked his wrist at Roycen, "-are as noisy as a dead nug. How _is_ that exactly?"

                “Ah, wouldn't you love to know? Anyway, you said you would tell me the story of why you named your staff useless. But I think I have worked it out. Where most mages need a staff to project magic, you clearly don’t. It’s a trick I’m quite looking forward to exploring in our sessions, after the essentials are covered.” Roycen’s tone was probably coming over all the eager student, but the Tevinter’s ability truly was a rarity. To project without a staff was no mean feat, wherever you came from.

                “Ah, the arrogance of youth. Yes, I named my staff _Mehdri_ , having mastered the art of projection without a focus aid. Father was furious and threatened to turn my dear smoke-ash into kindling...” he tailed off, reminiscing.

               “Yes, but I worked the name out for myself. So you still owe me some other reward.”

                Dorian’s eyes glittered in the low light. He breached the space once more between himself and Roycen, voice lowered almost to a whisper. “ _Some other reward_...hmm?”

                Roycen found the chilly chamber was suddenly too stuffy. Dorian seemed to radiate heat, perhaps he was?

                Roycen tried to shrug casually, but it came off more like a flustered shiver. Without warning, Dorian’s long-fingered hands were around the nape of his neck once more. Dorian’s soft lips brushed against the gape of Roycen’s mouth. The older mage could have easily slipped in his tongue, but instead Dorian nibbled Roycen’s lower lip softly.

                Roycen became engulfed in the mage’s scent, smoky spice and sharp citrus. His lips started to respond with slow pressure, drawing Dorian to press tighter. Their mouths locked until Roycen almost forgot to breathe.The knarlwood staff clattered to the floor, engulfing them in darkness.

                But this was _not enough_.

Roycen’s arms found purchase under Dorian’s cloak, smoothing their way down tense shoulder blades and nestling around his waist, drawing the older mage closer. The small sound Dorian made at that sent a wave of longing through Roycen's form, the feeling pooled in his loins.

_Not enough._

Roycen’s legs took weak steps backwards as Dorian steadily guided him. Roycen's shoulders met the stone wall firmly, his hands fell limply from Dorian’s body as the mage pulled his lips away, only to suck hungrily at Roycen's neck. Roycen could hear the sound of wet lips on his collarbone. He almost collapsed from the sensation, when Dorian pressed a leg flush to Roycen's pinning his thigh into position. It was then that Roycen realised that he was lost. He might have whimpered when Dorian ducked lower still to mark a trail of delicate kisses down his collarbone, neck, pulling to reach the skin below the tunic's high collar. Dorian rumbled with appreciation which only elicited more sounds from him.

                Two simultaneous sounds brought Roycen out of his reverie: the metallic snap of a button at his throat and a shrill “MAKER!” somewhere far away in another world.

                 A ball of magelight flared in Dorian's hand. Roycen's hip was immediately cold from the loss of contact, but there was no mistaking whose gangly frame was at the entrance to the chamber. Sera’s cheeks were the colour of beetroot, she clasped one hand to her mouth and waggled her fingers at them with the other. She bent over almost double, a position which she maintained for a few moments before belting "YOU! And _mage-face_!" before darting back up the way she came.

                Roycen and Dorian tore away from each other, swearing together in their native tongues. Roycen did not spare Dorian a glance as he made a desperate pursuit after Sera. Having bolted through the Chantry's main hall, he finally found Sera's gangly plaidweave legs dangling from a nearby rooftop. Only then did he remember the undone button at his throat. He pinched it back in place and looked up pleadingly to Sera, who was drumming her fingers against the rooftop.


	9. The Incandescence Spectrum

**The Incandescence Spectrum**  
      
  
               The morning bells tolled throughout Haven. His thoughts thick with the rippling din, Dorian pulled the lean pillow over his head. He was still fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes and likely reeking of stale alcohol and sweat.

                Yesterday's events had led to Dorian craving the escape that only an alcoholic stupor can provide. Artful persuasion and the jangle of coin was enough to wrangle a grimy bottle of unlabelled brandy from a fair-skinned scout with cropped curls. The scout claimed he ‘found’ the bottle out in some abandoned tower. If such a thing could be believed. Who abandons perfectly good alcohol?

                Dorian paid the scout well beyond reason. Indeed, he would have paid a noble’s ransom for a cup of anything that was not Haven’s especially piss-poor ale or oily wine which evoked more vinegar than grape. Haven's offerings were a bitter swallow compared to the warming spiced liqueurs and heady reds he was partial to. He was usually loathe to drink something of unknown origin, but needs must.

                The drink seared down his throat and burned all memory of his kiss with the young Herald. The price for the brandy suddenly seemed cheap.

                The numbing burn of the brandy was the last thing he remembered with clarity about last night

The fact that the rest of his evening was a bright, noisy blur was testament to the drink’s effectiveness. The luxury of forgetting, of overwhelming his mind and body was exactly what he had been going for. It was a miracle that he found his way back to his own tent.  
  
               As the peal of the morning bells receded, the relative peace served to bring what had happened before the brandy to the forefront of his mind. His hangover did nothing to the clarity of the memory; he had kissed Roycen. _Roycen had kissed him back_... and had wanted more. That much was clear. But then they were rudely interrupted. The Herald had done nothing but avoid him for the rest of the day, eyes darting for escape like a prey animal whenever he spotted Dorian. He knew better than to force the matter. He sighed, knowing the prospect of mentoring the young mage was well and truly damned. This depressing truth cast a shadow over the meandering rivers of memory: when their lips first touched, Roycen might as well have been struck by his own lightning magic, so rigid was he from head to boots.  
  
               A warm ripple engulfed Dorian as he recalled the eventual softening of tension in Roycen’s shoulders, the sweet trembling of the man's fingers reaching to ghost Dorian’s hips. It was like Roycen was a maid unpractised in affection; so tentative were his actions. It was nothing like Dorian was used to. If he had been denied a lover’s touch then the Chantry had even more to answer for with their damned prisons. If there was a Maker, surely those lips were made to be tasted. Devoured.

                But then Roycen had finally returned Dorian’s kiss, and Dorian had no longer been so sure that the young mage was inexperienced. Roycen’s kiss was clumsy with need yet oh so intoxicating. Roycen's mouth had pressed gracelessly, becoming forceful. Yet his body had been entirely pliable, letting Dorian guide him into that wall. Pressed against him so closely, he had felt the skittering of Roycen’s heart. The fevered thrum which complimented his almost silent gasps to perfection when Dorian had kissed a light trail at his jaw. He had never expected such soft sounds to be so erotic. Yet they were.

  
               Swirling about in his river of thought were other less savoury truths. The brutal knowledge that their fleeting encounter would not be repeated numbed Dorian with a leaden despondency. When that giggling oddity of an elf, Sera had stumbled in on the scene... all was lost.  At the sound of Sera’s exclamation, Roycen’s features had expressed such agony, such regret. The man then made his priorities very clear as he chased after the elf leaving Dorian in the darkness.  
  
                Roycen’s behaviour the rest of that day had made Dorian certain that there would not be another chance. It was not before looking for Roycen that Dorian resolved to find a liquid solace instead. Not that he had expected to have a heart to heart with Roycen. He had only intended to assure him that he understood. There would be no further talk of mentoring.  
  
                The only communication he had thus far been afforded was a note tucked inside one of his restored clothes chests. The three chests now dominated most of the space his humble tent allowed. In a moment of foolish desire, he had breathed heavily into the black and gold tunic which had hung so loosely on Roycen's shoulders, hoping to indulge himself in the man’s scent. But the garments had all been washed prior to their return, as the note had specified.  
  
             When a girl brought in breakfast, he rolled away to face the tent canvas, thinking a bottle of red would serve him better. The tavern would not be open yet. He may as well catch up on that lost sleep. Besides, he suspected the bowl contained porridge. Following the discussion with Roycen earlier in the week, there had been thick yoghurt, duck eggs and chunks of that moreish honey bread. However, he did not suspect the special treatment would continue.  
  
                A chink of bright light caused Dorian to roll back on his pallet. “You’re late!” Roycen’s shot at his blanketed figure.  
  
               _Roycen? Why now?_ Dorian composed himself as quickly as any man with a hangover and clad in yesterday's clothes could.  
  
               “Impossible. It is too disgustingly early to be late for anything!” Dorian retorted, sitting up and rubbing his eyes in disbelief. No, Roycen was definitely there.  His hands rested on his hips above twin daggers, his boot tapped an impatient rhythm on the earthen floor.  
  
               “Are you drunk?” Roycen asked, his grey-green eyes boring into him.  
  
               Dorian tried to scrutinise Roycen as closely, but only ended up squinting in the morning light. The young mage saw the problem and let the tent cloth fall behind him. Dorian's raised his eyebrows on seeing Roycen was dressed in a long cream shirt, cotton trousers and mage’s robes, adapted with holsters for his twin daggers. Not a strap of leather in sight.   
  
               “I was drunk.” Dorian corrected him. He chose to ignore the whirling in his head as he pulled himself to his feet. “Yet you will now find me as brilliant as ever." he assured while attempting to casually smooth down his bed-hair.  
  
               Roycen chuckled, before turning serious. "We did agree mornings, Dorian. There are plenty of other mages I could train with and my time is not my own these days.”  
  
               It took all of Dorian’s will not to stare agape at the man who had been avoiding him since their kiss.  
_He still wanted tuition?_   
  
               “That will not be necessary!” Dorian blustered. Roycen, damn him, was smirking in amusement. Dorian worked to keep his breaths even. “All I ask is a moment to refresh myself.”  
  
               “Five minutes with the bucket. You preen more than any man I know." Roycen huffed with impatience, looking for once like the young man he was.  
  
               Dorian felt a bubble of pride at the statement, even if Southern standards of hygiene left a lot to be desired.  
  
               "Perfection has its price." Dorian remarked.  
  
               "Suuure. But no fussing around with that moustache or waxing your skin or whatever. We’ve work to do.” Roycen dictated.  
  
                 _Waxing his skin?_ The young man was woefully clueless when it came to proper preening.   
  
               Dorian assured that he would be along presently. And to his word, he spent only half of his usual time grooming his trademark moustache.  
  
               He also noticed that a breakfast of druffalo milk and oatcakes had been left on his box. He glugged the rich milk in one and wrapped the cakes in a handkerchief before stuffing them into his pocket.  


* * *

  
               Despite the man’s eagerness to get going with his tuition, Roycen seemed excessively distracted on the way to the location he had cited as being 'perfect for their needs'. Dorian imagined privacy to be chief among those needs and was not sure how he felt about being alone with the man less than twenty-four hours from their first kiss. Dorian mentally kicked himself for considering that as their first kiss. It was 'the kiss'. First and last. He filed the thought into 'Important Notes to Remember' under 'Roycen Trevelyan'. The file in his mind was growing rather fat.  
  
               Dorian expected that there would be the usual demands on Roycen's time as they traversed the main path to Haven's gates. However, Roycen now seemed in no hurry, listening intently to even the most tedious matters and requests.  
  
               It dawned on Dorian that Roycen was still avoiding him, even as they walked side by side through Haven. Although listening in on some of the conversations did bring Dorian some welcome news. The hundred or so mages still to reach Haven would arrive within the next week. When that happened there would be no delay in taking on the Breach. Dorian would do his utmost to prepare Roycen for the unknown and to manage the intensity of magic which three hundred mages or more would be pouring into the effort. While Dorian knew little of how the southern Circles went about training their mages, he expected that Roycen’s obvious weakness in some areas of magic were likely down to never having the opportunity to flourish, rather than being incapable. Or so he hoped.  
  
               When Roycen was stopped yet again, this time by Haven’s horse master Dennett, Dorian could not decide whether the young man was simply stalling, or was truly humanitarian enough to give a steaming pile of druffallo dung about the pros and cons of various types of feed.  


* * *

  
  
               Things would have been much easier if Dorian could just walk quietly through the woods to the location Roycen has chosen. But the older mage had a tongue that could talk the hind leg off a donkey.

              “Lovely. A walk in the woods, just where I like to take my freshly laundered clothes,” Dorian jibed. They were barely five minutes out of Haven and already he was barely able to keep the whine out of his voice. Roycen did not offer a comment, focusing intently on leading them to their destination.

                But it was no good. Memories of yesterday filled the silence, the same memories which had kept him up half the night. It was not that Dorian had kissed him which troubled him, but the way he had felt: drunk on the older mage’s scent, crushing their mouths tighter when he knew he needed to end it. The only thing that was clear to him was that it could not happen again. If one kiss had kept him up like a lovelorn teenager, how destructive would more intimacy be? He had made his decision in the long night. The choices he made were no longer his. If he ever hoped to bring down the Breach, to be worthy of the gift bestowed upon him, then he needed to improve as much as humanly possible. This meant no romantic distractions. Conversely, if also meant accepting that the most talented mage in the Inquisition had to be the one to mentor him. There was no escaping that Dorian was that mage. Just as Cullen instructed Roycen in warcraft Leliana worked on deception and Solas tried to unravel the mysteries of the anchor. If training with Dorian wasn’t a success then he would be forced to train with the other mages. Then they would all see the Herald for what he was: a weak mage. The news would spread like wildfire. The Herald, ‘Andraste’s light’ cast in shadow. Weeds of doubt finding gaps in the people’s fragile resolve.  
  
               Minutes stretched by in a silence broken only by the squelch of their boots in the soggy grass and the swish of Dorian’s heavy cloak. Their approach startled a flock of wild rams. A young male decided to stand its ground, pawing the ground skittishly with its hoof, horns bowed in an aggressive stance.  
  
               “Daggers at the ready, Roycen. You can boil yourself some more vests and I will fashion us each a drinking horn.” Dorian whispered, sidestepping to allow Roycen more freedom of movement. Roycen was intent on ignoring him, until he heard the fizz of magic coming from Dorian’s direction. "I'm thinking lightning cage, then we can roast the beast on the spot," Dorian suggested, his hands webbed with purple tendrils of lightning magic.  
  
               “We don’t have time for this.” Roycen stated blankly. Despite himself, he spared his companion a glance. The Tevinter was wearing a narrow expression of disapproval. Neither man spoke again until Roycen stopped beside the entrance to the clearing he had chosen. The spot was marked by a weathered stone mabari statue. The dog was missing half an ear. It was impossible to tell if it had always been that way.  
  
              Dorian squinted through the gap through to the clearing. The entrance was through a narrow slip of rock, otherwise the space was ringed with mature trees and undergrowth. “We’re here are we? Good choice of venue to partake in inferno magic, if you dislike trees as much as I do. They’ll be able to see the bonfire from Haven!”  
  
               “Come on then.” Roycen turned sideways to squeeze through the narrow entrance to the clearing, when he almost walked into Dorian who had sidestepped to block his path.  
  
               Roycen looked up and was about to tell Dorian to stop wasting time, when he noticed the fire in Dorian's expression. _Maker..._  
  
               “Right. Enough of this demonshit! _What_ have you done with Roycen Trevelyan?” Dorian spoke through gritted teeth. The Tevinter’s body was rigid. Roycen had never seen the older mage like this. Even in battle, he was always graceful. Why was he thinking this now of all moments?!  
  
               “Dorian... I... ” Roycen tiptoed backwards, only to be seized about the shoulders by the Tevinter’s hands. His grip was firm but trembling with... what? Not the cold. Anger? Roycen wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground and pop up somewhere else like a terror demon.             
  
               “What have you done with Roycen Trevelyan?” Dorian repeated, hard, grey eyes bore into his. "Looks a bit like you, but less of a sour-"  
  
               “-I don’t... Dorian. _You’re hurting me!_ ” The older mage looked at his gripping hands in alarm. Dorian's knuckles had turned almost white from pressure. He relinquished his hold a little. His fury lost some of its fire.  
  
               “Roycen Trevelyan-“ Dorian continued, as he stared intently at Roycen’s shoulder. “-doesn’t like to be called ‘Herald’. He's a roguish, yet somewhat charming man who wants to fix all of Thedas. Heck, he probably could with a little help. I want to know what happened to him.” Above anything Dorian's voice was sad. It did not suit him at all.  
  
               “Maker above! I'm right here.” Roycen grumbled, trying half-heartedly to wriggle free from the Tevinter’s slackened grip. “Maybe you haven’t realised the rest of the mages will be here in under a week. you’re wasting time. Either we’re training or we’re not. Sort yourself out and make that decision.” He looked resolutely into Dorian’s eyes and held the look as Dorian released his grip in Roycen’s shoulders. _Finally, things were under control._ But then Dorian stepped closer still. Roycen knew he was free to flee, or at least take a step back in return, yet he felt more trapped than ever. The Tevinter leaned forward until he could feel warm breath against his neck. Even when Roycen closed his eyes, the smoke and cinnamon scent was unmistakable. This was just like before. All of his resolve crushed in an instant by Dorian’s closeness.

                If the older mage was to kiss him now... A heartbeat passed. Another. Was Dorian _waiting_ for him?   
  
               Suddenly the warmth receded. Dorian had leaned back to his earlier position and was thumbing the snake on his staff casually as if nothing had happened His voice was light with the usual sarcasm. “Clearly I am the one wasting my time. If that truly is you in there, you have either had a personality transplant since leaving Haven, or I have obviously offended you in some way. Let’s have it out, hmm? I hate dirty secrets. Reminds me too much of home.” He jabbed the spike of his sharp base into the ground, killing a fat spider instantly.  


                 “ _Alright._ We made a mistake, _”_ Roycen admitted then added after a momentary pause,“...yesterday.” As if Dorian wouldn’t know what he was referring to.  
  
               “On the contrary, I rather thought you enjoyed yourself at the time.” Dorian’s voice had fallen to a low whisper.  
  
               “I don’t know what I was feeling.” Roycen confessed. He took a step back and found he could breathe a little easier for the distance. “Our lives are so far apart. I’ve never had the freedoms you take for granted.

               

                “Freedoms?” The word was a spear. Roycen regretted his choice of words immediately. He should have known better than to think Dorian had it easier. Not all prisons were as obvious as the Chantry’s Circles.  
  
               Dorian sighed, visibly deflating. “The fault is mine. I must have misread the signs. It was never my intention to take you unawares. But Maker’s balls... you were wearing my smallclothes, Roycen. What is a man to think?”  
  
               Roycen groaned, helpless to quell the flaming of his cheeks. “That was my mistake. I could blame Sera. I don’t know what I was thinking of.”  
  
               “Maybe it’s simpler than you think. My charm can be a touch... overwhelming. You would not be the first to succumb.” To Roycen’s irritation, Dorian had adopted a honeyed purr that made him weak in the knees. Roycen exhaled deeply to stop Dorian from doing more damage. He didn’t want to lie to him, but there had to be a way to stop this flirting (before it broke him completely).  
  
               He had no choice but to lie, just like he had no choice but to end this distraction once and for all.  
  
               “Guilty.” Roycen stammered. Dorian’s mouth was parted slightly. It was hardly helping. “Yes, I was guilty,” he stated more confidently. “Guilty for stealing your clothes. So I _... let you_?” It hadn’t meant to sound like a question. He hoped Dorian would believe him. The truth was too difficult for Roycen to explain. He liked Dorian, admired and was sometimes in awe of his abilities, and yes, he was perfectly charming, their goals were aligned... But, Roycen’s life was no longer his own. How could he afford the luxury of such distractions with the Breach expanding and so many hopes pinned on him keeping everything together?  
  
               “Oh.” was Dorian’s response. He looked utterly crestfallen.  
  
               Roycen used the awkward silence to pad out the lie. “I mean... you had been waiting for those clothes. I got your best tunic all dusty and I might have torn one of the buttons.”  
  
               “I see.”  
  
               Of all the things he had imagined, Roycen had not expected Dorian to look so... lost. Roycen had overheard enough rumours about a Redcliffe mage he had seduced. Dorian should have no problems finding what he needed.  
  
               “I still want to learn. If that’s possible.” Roycen said, trying a small smile. He needed Dorian's despondency would break. If it didn't, he might just unravel everything he had just worked for.  
  
               The sudden enthusiasm in Dorian's voice took Roycen aback. “And learn you shall! I will limit my offerings to merely magical tuition, and yet I will still have you calling my name in your sleep!”  
  
               Maker, the man was shameless.  
  
              “Dorian...” Roycen warned.  
  
               “My apologies.” his enthusiasm turned to seriousness. “I will not utter another word on the matter, except to say that if you change your mind, I am the first to know.”  
  
               “Dorian, please know that I am truly sorry if I have misled you. It will not happen again. I just cannot afford to be... distracted, from the Breach. From everything.”  
  
               “Am I that good? Seems like your guilt was only part of the equation...” he mused. Roycen was opening his mouth to berate him, when to his astonishment Dorian uttered an apology. “Ah. Right you are. From now I will not utter another word, other than those in the wholesome interest of developing your potential. Come, my protégée.” He led the way through the thin gap in the rock to the location Roycen had picked for their sessions.  
  
                Roycen should have felt relieved from their conversation, but fat worms of doubt wriggled inside him. It did not help that Dorian was about to see how woeful his magic was.  


* * *

  
              He had not lost the young mage completely and that should have been enough. Yet Dorian could not help feeling disappointed. Roycen was clearly attracted to him. Dorian had released his shoulders, came in close knowing exactly how uncomfortable it would make Roycen, not particularly caring. He had to know either way. Yet Roycen could not give him even this. Roycen had stood there red-faced, arms pinned to his sides. His wide eyes shut suddenly and Dorian waited. And waited. But it seemed Andraste would come again before the young mage gave into temptation.

                Even then Dorian had tried to make it easy for Roycen:

_“Maybe it’s simpler than you think... You would not be the first to succumb.”_

                But Roycen plucked excuses like a dinner guest caught with silverware up their sleeves. Dorian resigned himself to Roycen’s request that he stop flirting, but that did not intend to be an ounce less brilliant. Top of his class in Minrathous, mentoring a Circle mage almost ten years his junior would hardly be taxing. Plenty of opportunity to show off.

 Dorian had sensibly begun the session with a practical assessment of Roycen’s elemental magic. Lightning was fair, Roycen’s ice formations were a little shapeless but slow to melt at least. Inferno magic, however...  
  
               There was no beating about the bush. Trevelyan was an inept mage if one was feeling complimentary. Clumsy, unfocused, lacking in stamina, watching the man draw mana was like watching a drunk elephant suck setting treacle up its trunk.  
  
               Seeing Trevelyan produce a barely deadly jet of flame was one of the most sobering things he had witnessed outside of the Imperium Dorian sagged despite himself as an inevitable wave a disappointment flooded through him. He had witnessed some sloppiness in Roycen’s magic during their battle with the rift on the way to Haven, not to mention that he seemed to prefer the use of daggers in close combat rather than making full use of his staff. However, Dorian had assumed that in more controlled circumstances Roycen’s performance would improve. He was gravely mistaken.  
  
               He found himself infinitely glad that Roycen had scouted out such a secluded location. It would not do for the influx of mages at Haven to witness their Herald poorly executing basic elemental casting. It would seem that the Circle mage would need Dorian to elicit every trick in the book if he were to improve significantly before their attempt on the Breach. This, the very same mage who was so impressive when funnelling his magic into a rift. All ethereal noise and throbbing green power. The ability to blast demons back to the fade would make any aspiring mage envious. Then again, the old magic of the anchor was not the man’s own, not truly. The fact that the anchor in action affected other mages was a fine example of that. All mages, Dorian included were overcome with nausea if casting while Roycen’s anchor was active. Dorian hoped it was something that could be overcome. The fact that it affected every mage did not make it any less embarrassing.  
  
               “Again,” Dorian said, trying to ignore the pained look on Trevelyan's face. He would do the man no favours by being soft. If he had wanted that he should have known better than to come to Dorian, who had not risen so far in Tevinter by accident. The fact that the last batch of mages were soon to arrive only made the need for results more imperative.  
  
               This time Roycen cast the lick of flame for nearly twice as long. Acceptable, and his form was good, a straight whip of fire. It was the intensity that was amiss.  
  
               “Better.” Dorian remarked, forcing a smile to his lips.

                Roycen noticed, letting his staff fall to the grass and absently locking his fingers in his hair. “Don’t need to humour me. Be honest.

                Dorian couldn’t be honest. He was trying his utmost to be supportive and not to accidentally say something soul destroying. No. Roycen didn’t need to know that in Qarinus, an apprentice half his years would be the laughing stock of their peers if they performed as badly as him. Honestly, Dorian was swallowing the anger and disgust. Another mage ruined by a Southern Circle.

                “Honestly, I’m wondering how you survived outside of the Circle. I don’t imagine you provided services of magic when harrowed.”

                If the change of topic took Roycen aback, he didn’t show it. “Hunted, mainly.” he said. “Used to enjoy that... before. Snake traps, rabbit snares, that sort of thing. Seeing as I left Ostwick three times as tall, found a Dalish hunting partner and went for larger game. Halla mostly.”

                The cruelty of it. Dorian would not pick at the scar by asking when he had been taken to the Ostwick Circle, but he would have been young. It was painful to imagine the golden-haired boy setting snares in the grass confined to an airless tower.

                “Halla.” Dorian mused. “Aren’t they worshipped by the elves?”

                Roycen shrugged. “Didn’t stop me and Asaleth. She seemed okay with it. Taught me a few tricks.”

                “Ah, so this Asaleth is to blame for you sneaking up on innocent people.” Dorian teased.

                “Maybe. But you’re not innocent. Plus, I know it’s not what you want, but look.”

                Before Dorian could retort, Roycen had unsheathed his twin daggers, instantly wreathing both of them in roaring orange flame. The fire rippled against the steel, losing no intensity. Dorian’s smile was genuine this time. This was leagues apart from his pale yellow attempts only moments ago.

                “I find it easy to cast surface magic, its projecting that’s the problem.” Roycen explained, still holding the spell at full power. “The mana seems to slip away before I can shape it. Even when I’m full to the brim.”

                “Something we can work on.” Dorian assured. In truth, he had never experienced this problem. As pleasurable as it was to watch Roycen cast without wincing, it was time to know if Roycen had at least been taught theory in that blasted Circle.

                He gestured for Roycen to drop the spell, taking up his own staff. “Now watch, and please recite the forms of the Incandescence Spectrum as they appear to you.”

  
               Roycen immediately stood a little straighter as he calmly recited the puffs of fire erupting from Dorian’s staff. Dorian briefly considered having the burst pour from the snake's mouth, but realised this was hardly the time to be showing off.  
  
               The young mage's confidence grew with every phase of flame. “Dawn yellow, cook’s cadmium, maiden’s blush, raw scarlet... I-I’ve never seen... that’s oblivion blue.” Roycen’s mouth was agape in sheer awe. Dorian’s heart may have skipped a beat. The intensity of Dorian’s magic wavered as he lost focus. Maker, did the man have any idea how endearing his bright-eyed expression was? Roycen had the audacity to name Dorian a distraction. Did he not know that his unbridled awe was more distracting than a horde of drufallo? It was made all the more precious by the fact that the young man before him was so often lost behind the mask of ‘Herald’, who bore too much weight for his small smiles to ever reach his eyes. Dorian was sorely tempted to perform his most impressive magic just to make Roycen grin like this.

                Dorian released the mana more slowly than usual in order to reign himself in of the desire threatening to overwhelm his sense. Roycen had twice rejected him. Nothing good could come of pressing.   

  
               “I see they decided to teach you something in Ostwick, at least.” Dorian remarked coolly. Roycen was avoiding eye contact once more, perhaps he had realised the effect he was having. Good. Although... Roycen shifted his weight nervously, worrying the nails on his left hand with his teeth, his right buried once more in his wavy, dark blonde hair…

  
                Unfortunately, being a font of encouragement did not come naturally to him. The Tevinter way to ‘encourage’ a mage who forgot their theory or blundered their application was to sentence them to remain in the practice hall until otherwise. While Tevinter Circles were a far cry from the Southern prisons, training was taken extremely seriously. Most of his counterparts had been detained overnight at least once their first year at the Minrathous Circle. Dorian had never allowed himself a taste of that disgrace. He had also been casting oblivion blue with enough control to include in his weekly presentation to his father at the tender age of thirteen. It was one of the reasons he had been offered a mentorship with arguably the most talented inferno mage of his era. Not that any of it had mattered to his father in the end.   
  
  
               Perhaps it was simply a case of setting achievable targets. As far as Dorian could see, all Roycen needed was to intensify the power and draw more mana through the veil. “By midday, you will be casting cook’s cadmium.” He vowed to the young mage, who glanced at him sheepishly.  
  
               "No time like the present." Dorian said, producing a steady jet of orange flame.  
  
               Roycen nodded, casting a slightly brighter lick of flame atop his staff.

 

* * *

  
  
               After an hour demonstrating his ability in offensive, defensive and manipulation magic, Roycen was afforded a much needed break. He glugged one of Dorian’s lyrium potions and flopped straight down onto a dry patch of grass shadowed by a willow. Roycen relished in the comforting buzz of the lyrium and closed his eyes, feeling at peace for the first time that day.  
  
               All too soon, Dorian was urging him up from his grassy bed. In keeping with the promise Roycen had made to himself, he did not look directly into the mage’s eyes, even as he started to ask about life in Ostwick. At first, it felt there was little to say. Each day was largely the same, mornings of theory and afternoons of application. No household duties as such. That was left to the Tranquil. Each student was afforded half of every fifth-day as their own. Not that the mages were afforded any sort of freedom with which to make use of this time. Roycen liked to use the time to review the week’s skills and read.

             Dorian commented on how terrifying it must have been, surrounded by the Tranquil, knowing the slightest transgression could result in the same fate. The Tevinter attempted to make light of Roycen’s experience, speaking of a time all his mentors in Minrathous turned to lions. His Circle had so little in common with Roycen’s own, but Dorian painted a picture of fevered competition peppered with the growing threat of assassination as envious colleagues graduated and became engulfed in politics. Roycen could hear a twinge of hurt in his voice as Dorian admitted that one of his close friends had beggared himself in an attempt on Dorian’s life just because he declined to marry his sister. To Roycen, Tevinter sounded terrifying. Nothing at all like Ostwick.  
  
               Although his Circle was essentially a prison, it did not stop the mages forming a close-knit community with each other. It was even possible to form friendships with some of the Templars as long as you pretended to show some regard for their rules. Of course, when you did break the rules the consequences were dire. After being found in both a compromising situation and in a restricted area, Roycen was terrified that he would be taken for his Harrowing early. For a long time after that, he wished he had. For his partner in crime had suffered that fate. Despite the injustices, the Circle was the first place that Roycen had felt safe since his magic emerged. Not that Dorian would understand that. His magic had always been encouraged, a source of pride to the family he had apparently disappointed in so many other areas. Roycen's life almost ended at eleven, on the day he accidentally shocked his father. Literally.  
               

                The months following that fateful day were spent in maddening solace, punctuated only by his mother silently bringing food and water in silence and the occasional stranger who claimed they could cure him. It was no wonder that these 'healers' were all ragged crackpots, really. Roycen bore the name Trevelyan but their family's stunted tree was a far cry from the leafy oak of house of the proper Trevelyans of Ostwick. While they were trusted traders, Roycen's grandmother, Fynnis had emerged a mage too. That had been enough to throw her descendents into an existence of poverty. If the true Trevelyan's could have stripped Fynnis of their family name, they would have. But the laws of marriage prohibited this. Banishment to the Free Marches backwater where Roycen grew up was the best the nobles could manage short of murdering the offending mage. The Maker must have been with Roycen on the day of the village's final attempt at a cure.

               All of the head families had chipped in to bring a real professional in to fix him. Roycen had not known the old woman's name, but she reeked of rotting flesh and her flaps of black robes reminded him of a crow. So to Roycen she was always the Crow Woman. His family had tried feeding mud to Roycen before, and he had read about the practice since in the Circle. Although it had to be taken with a pinch of salt, a fellow mage had penned statistics on the effects of quelling magic by consuming mud, which seemed in favour of the ritual ridding a mage of ability if it was done early. That was not what was most interesting to Roycen, though. He had memorised chapter five of paragraph four, page sixty-three of Natural Influences on the Magical Arts by Hugosten Pyse:

               " _The mage that hath ingest'd copious river mud may furthermore experience a muting of ability. The longevity or lessening of this affliction is expected with thorough training. However, the validity of this theory is as yet undemonstrated and thus will require further study in the field_."

               Roycen had scoured the Circle's library as an apprentice, questioned visiting mages and even braved Ostwick town once harrowed in his search for more of Pyse's works. He had not been fruitful. The idea that Roycen's sub-standard magic was not his fault was both appealing and distressing. If it was not his fault, then he could never fulfil his potential. But if the Quell was not to blame... there was no excuse.

                Roycen noticed with a start that Dorian was rolled onto his side, waving an olive hand in his face. Having gained Roycen's attention, Dorian shifted onto his front, chin cupped in his hands. Roycen supposed he should say something, and once he started he couldn't stop. He skipped everything that happened in his village, and the first half a year in the Circle, but otherwise he spoke mostly of Ostwick. He explained that much of the training in the Circle focused on self control, resisting possession, corruption and over-reaching, as if to justify his poor offensive skills. He tried to convince an incredulous Dorian that the Templars helped to protect the mages from those who wanted nothing better than to burn the towers to the ground with all souls still inside. In the end, Ostwick had still fallen but that was through no fault of their Templars. Roycen still wished he had been there. Perhaps more lives could have been saved... It left a bitter taste that Roycen was now harbouring rebel mages, when it was rebel mages who had destroyed the Ostwick Circle in the name of freedom. Roycen vowed that if he met the offenders, he would serve them the same bloody freedom they had brought upon innocent apprentices.  
  
               “Vishante Kaffas!” Dorian cursed, springing to his feet and stamping his staff into the grass so fiercely that he had to twist to free it. “We need to undo years of conditioning. I thought that all southern Circles were alike, that your skills would be in line with other hallowed mages met on the road. I am mistaken.”  
  
               “Dorian, only so much is down to the training. I’m the first to admit that certain branches of magic do not come as easily to me as—”  
  
               “Nonsense! You are an acceptable mage. You will become astounding. We just need to maintain your draw of mana at the very edge of your limit and work backwards until you are in full control. I suggest we speak to Adan about some mana replenishments.”  
  
               The thought was terrifying. Roycen could hardly admit that he did not even know where his limit was. From time to time every other mage in his Circle had flooded themselves with too much magic. It was a natural part of learning how to control magic, but not for Roycen. He had even tried to overwhelm himself, but the unpredictable surge, the wracking loss of control had never been reached.  
  
               Dorian picked up on his distress, the older mage's usually confident manner shrinking to a quizzical concern. He glanced at the midday sun and tutted. “Ah, but I fear our time is at an end. Same time tomorrow, my dear Trevelyan?”  
  
              Roycen considered for a moment if he should be chiding Dorian for flirting, but decided to forgive the endearment. Roycen agreed that he would meet at Dorian's tent the same time tomorrow. As an afterthought, he rubbed the top of his staff, giving one last attempt at a decent flame. This time, the fire burned a steady, pale orange.  
  
               Dorian’s voice rang crisp with delight. “I do believe that’s cook’s cadmium! Perhaps I’ll bring along a fowl tomorrow for you to roast, Roycen.”  
  
               He tried not to focus on how pleasant his name sounded when coming from Dorian’s lips, but he could not stop the small smile from budding, just as he could not avoid looking straight into Dorian’s soft grey eyes. They crinkled at the edges. Roycen looked away, knowing his cheeks were reddening and thanking the Maker that Dorian did not say a word.

 


	10. Strands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We'll take a break now from the present day to dwell a little on Roycen's time in the Circle. Any glaring canon errors please let me know.
> 
> Also...
> 
> WARNING: This scene includes descriptions of trichotillomania.  
> Trichotillomania is an impulse control disorder sometimes mistaken for self harm (it usually isn't meant as self harm). Any questions about it just ask. My intentions are not to romanticize the condition or suggest it is a good way of dealing with stress. However, I knew early on in his character development that trich is an important part of Roycen's life.

**Strands**

                Roycen jerked awake, choking on mud. He gagged instinctively, eyes squeezed shut, trembling arms around locked around his knees. After long moments, he recognised the faint flicker of lamplight against his eyelids. Pulling his arms away from his legs felt dangerous, but he was rewarded with the familiar cool of smooth wood against his sweating palm. He was at the foot of his bed, but couldn't quite believe that yet.

                He braved opening an eye, then the other. _His room. Safe._

                Only a nightmare, _only a memory_. Roycen allowed himself the first free breath since he had fallen in his sleep. It tasted crisp and clean. The rough stone floor slowly soothed his fevered skin. He remained there until his teeth were chattering and his bare arms covered in goosepimples.

                When Roycen finally pulled himself up, he curled into the hollow his body had made in the feather mattress. He was still sprung with tension. A dull ache was surfacing at the hip which had taken the worst of the fall. It would bruise come the morning. Unbidden, Roycen’s fingers found their way to the back of his head. Budding tufts and longer strands alike fell victim to his fingertips. The prickling of skin under his pulled hair drowned out every other feeling. It was not bliss, but blankness, and exactly what he needed. The night's harvested hair pooled on his pillow and skittered to the floor. He would think to clear the evidence in the morning.

                When Roycen finally returned to sleep, he was back in his lumpy pallet at the Ostwick Circle. Another hand was in his hair, soft whispers brushing against his ear. None of his family had accompanied or visited Roycen in the Circle. It had not mattered. Ruddy skinned, dark haired Yarwick had taken care of him better than he had ever known. An apprentice two years his elder, and at least half again Roycen’s weight, Yarwick could easily have ignored the timid, sniffling boy. Instead, he had taken him in as a brother. When the mud nightmares had gotten so severe that they woke him every night, Yarwick lifted Roycen from his own pallet and let him nestle in his strong, safe arms instead.

                His most comforting memories of that early time in the Circle were of waking flushed with panic, Yarwick stroking his tangled blonde hair while softly whispering, “Safe now, you’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” When a nightmare was especially painful, pressing against Yarwick’s body, grounding himself in the steady tread of the older boy's heartbeat, was even better than his gentle caresses.

                Years later, it was not just nightmares which sent Roycen sneaking under Yarwick's coverlets. It was around his third year in the circle when Yarwick started to stroke other parts of his body. As one of the scrawniest apprentices in the Circle, Roycen benefited from the larger boy’s fierce loyalty by day. By night, the touching continued. Being encased in those freckled arms comforted him in the same way that falling into the sighing Free Marches grasses had when he was very young. On the night their lips pressed, Roycen’s chest surged with something like being hungry. Before long, their hands clasped in each other’s hair not for comfort, but with wanting as their tongues and fingers explored soft fields of skin.

                On the night that Yarwick fully removed both of their nightclothes, Roycen’s green-grey eyes had widened when he felt the fevered throbbing of the boy’s prick against his thigh.

                Roycen sensed the prickle of Yarwick’s bright blue eyes piercing into his, even through the dark. When the older boy guided Roycen’s hand and took Roycen's twitching length with his own, he bit into the bedcloth, stifling groans. But not once was not afraid. He was always safe with Yarwick.

                Yarwick would not let anyone hurt him. He whispered the very same even as he squeezed Roycen’s penis to the point of aching. But it was a good ache.

                Yarwick's experienced hand quickened, drawing more little sounds which Roycen desperately tried to mask. Roycen was horrified for a moment that he had forgotten to keep moving his hand along Yarwick's length. Roycen redoubled his efforts to make up for the pause, which only made Yarwick chuckle into his hair. Roycen panicked again that he must be doing it wrong, but Yarwick's chuckle melting to a breathless gasp in his ear told him otherwise. The older boy pressed his hot tongue into Roycen’s mouth mid gasp, guiding his hand to move even faster along his length. When Yarwick's moment of release finally arrived, Roycen’s heart was thudding so fast that he thought he would die. He didn’t much care if he did.

                When both pairs of hands were slick with the other's release, Roycen found himself pinned under Yarwick’s familiar weight. If anything, he felt even safer. When Yarwick spoke, his voice was gravel, like he had forgotten how to use his tongue. At first Roycen only felt the puffs of warm breath at his neck and not the words themselves.

                “...safe...” Roycen caught. “I will never let anyone hurt you.” He knew. But it was always good to hear it.

                And Yarwick always did keep him safe. Except for that one time...

 

* * *

 

    Roycen had always been handy with glyphwork and warding. There was little enough privacy in the confines of the Circle and no locks on the doors. If an apprentice wished for solitude their only choice was to seal the door with as complex a sealing ward as possible. Even then, this could only guarantee seconds and was a punishable offence.

                Of course, what the apprentice was trying to keep secret was likely to be a more damning offence than glyphwork outside of the training rooms.

                On the day that Roycen's world fell apart, Yarwick was his usual self and had spent the morning showing off to the First Enchanter. When the end of session arrived, Yarwick surprised Roycen by grabbing onto his wrist. A devious smile reached his blue eyes. The effect was dazzling and Roycen was ready to follow the older boy anywhere.

                This time Yarwick had found a hidden entrance to what looked to be a cellar. Roycen had hardly been so excited during his time in the Circle, nor so terrified. The feeling was catching and both boys descended shivering through a trapdoor which was indistinguishable from the stone floor. He would have to ask Yarwick later how he found it.

                Looking back, theirs was a simple relationship. Roycen followed where Yarwick led, and trusted him beyond sense. If anyone else had made this discovery, suggesting he actually go and see, fear would have stalled him in his tracks. He may even have reported them.

                The cellar was like a low ceilinged storage room, but much more dusty. Although it was fifth day and they would not be wanted by Templars or trainers, Roycen warded the trapdoor entrance while Yarwick lit magelight to float in the corners. That was when Roycen noticed the bottles. There were rows and rows. Thick with eons of filth, sticky with cobwebs, yet each bottle sloshed promisingly when lifted from the rack.

                Yarwick worried the cork off a bottle with his teeth. Roycen felt a flutter in his groin as the boy prized the cork off a second bottle. Inside, something that might have once been honey mead gave off a heady aroma. It was nothing like the watered wine that was served in small cups on holy days. Anyway, it was good enough for Yarwick, who had the contents burning down his throat while Roycen was still coughing from the smell. With half of the first bottle empty, they fell backwards in a heap of tangled limbs, staring into the other's eyes. Never had they been truly alone in a lit place. The darkness of their dormitory hid so much that Roycen had not even realised he was missing out.

                Roycen’s fingers were less compliant than he was used to. Yarwick’s movements were equally sluggish, as if they had taken a small dose of sleep syrup. Yarwick's blue eyes, however, were... dizzying. The rest of his face was out of focus. Ruddy skin and charcoal hair swirled about the only thing Roycen could focus on: lightning blue eyes. Hard. Hungry.

                Roycen’s tongue swiped over his bottom lip. He could see exactly what Yarwick wanted, what they both wanted.

                Yawrwick laid back on the floor, sending a plume of dust into the dank air. Roycen wondered if he should lay down next to the older boy, when he felt strong hands on his hips. Roycen ended up kneeling between Yarwick's spread knees. The usual voice of caution was still there in the back of his head, but slippery and hard to hold onto. The words of warning, that they would be missed or caught kept wriggling about. Like Yarwick’s trouser lacing.

                Roycen felt threads at the back of his shirt tearing, just as he finally freed the older boy from his trousers. Yarwick took hold of his hands, extending Roycen's arms outwards so that he had no choice but to meet the soft skin of the older boy's stomach with his nose. Roycen worked awkwardly with his tongue towards the bulge at Yarwick’s smallclothes. Yarwick sacrificed his grip on Roycen’s hands to yank his own trousers all the way down, taking his smallclothes with them.

                “I won’t tell you what to do.” The older boy said. “But what you’re doing now. Could get a whole lot better,” he hinted in a growling voice. It was so unlike his usual voice.

                “I want...” but Roycen did not know what he wanted. It was new simply to _see_ his friend’s bare skin. They had never before lay themselves bare to one another, nor had the luxury of privacy. Roycen moved his mouth lower, where Yarwick most wanted him to go.

                Yarwick's dick was wet. The hot, sharp taste of him cut through the syrupy layer of mead on Roycen’s tongue. Yarwick’s fingers were locked in his hair, guiding him to move the way he wanted, but never forcing. Roycen’s tongue found a gentle, savouring rhythm, lapping up all Yarwick had to offer. The sounds he was drawing from Yarwick shot straight to his own groin. Suddenly, he lost contact, and rose his head dizzily. Yarwick’s bright blue eyes were inches away. The older boy cupped Roycen’s length, moving in deft strokes which bought him to a shuddering release in moments.

                That was when a black leather boot cracked through the trapdoor. The magic from the broken ward fizzed as the Templar surveyed the scene with emotionless eyes.

             

* * *

 

 

                 Roycen did not know where he was. Somewhere underground, from the must in the air. Drowning the Templar's words was the pain in his stomache as he was hit again. Drowning the pain was the fear.  Would he be made tranquil? Would Yarwick? Where was Yarwick? Who would keep him safe now?

                Years later, it would pain Roycen to think that he was so concerned with his own safety, before that of his friend.

                It was not until two days later that a shell called Roycen was sent back to the boys' dormitory. The mood among the apprentices was morbid. He told himself that he hadn’t heard the words right when Marc confirmed his worst fear. Yarwick was _gone_. He had undertaken his Harrowing. He had _died_.

_No._ They couldn't! It was too soon. He wasn’t old enough... _They couldn't._

_But they had._

                Roycen did not need to be told again that Yarwick had not made it. He had been forced into his Harrowing years too young and without the final training.

                The rest of that day he spent squeezed into the dark alcove behind one of the library bookshelves. There would be more pain when he was found there. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Roycen's hands found their way into his hair, but his own hand did not bring any of the comfort Yarwick's had. He tore his fingers away in frustration, welcoming the the crisp soreness as strands of his tawny-gold hair poured through his fingers. Curled in that tight, dark space, Roycen’s main emotion was not grief or fear, but guilt. Yarwick had always kept him safe, and Roycen had failed to do the same. Roycen had taken all that he needed, all that he wanted. For that, Yarwick was dead. He tried to recall his brilliant blue eyes, then felt guilty for that too.

                His hands returned to his hair, occasionally plucking more golden strands. The sting as each hair was torn from his scalp was somehow calming. He grasped absently for more, feeling less guilty, _less everything_ as the subtle stinging blanketed out every other sensation. Strands, became threads, became tufts.

 


	11. Distraction and Duty - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian wants to celebrate, just not with Ferelden ale.
> 
> Roycen has a run in with Josephine. 
> 
> Two part chapter, because many words happened.

**Distraction and Duty**

                No one could accuse Dorian of not trying a tankard of what passes for ale in Haven. He intended to celebrate, still buzzing from the morning’s mentoring session. If anything was worth drinking to, it was learning that he had not stuffed his chances with Roycen Trevelyan by kissing him. Indeed, it would have been quite disheartening to lose such a determined and promising student. The young mage had improved his mage fire intensity five-fold in only two days. Tomorrow, Roycen’s offensive inferno magic even be capable of causing terminal burns.

                Dorian ordered a bottle of Haven’s finest red, but the lady barkeep merely squinted at Dorian while rubbing a filthy rag around some empty tankards. Ale would have to do then. Even by Ferelden standards the smell of the brew was repellent, and its topping of yellowish froth looked equally appetising.

                He sipped with caution only to discover something chewy lurking beneath the froth. Dorian traipsed back to the bar, shouldering his way between two sodden warriors and plonking the offending beverage in front of the barkeep.

                “I was expecting drink. Not soup!” he declared.

                “People who drink this early don’t usually have expectations,” the barkeep commented.

                The nerve! Any time after the midday meal was a fine time to drink. Dorian tried to glare at the barkeep, but it her eyes were hidden under a straw coloured fringe. He coughed loudly to get the Ferelden woman's attention once more. “ _I expect_ what I paid you for. A drink, if you would be so kind.” He shuffled his full tankard against her fingers.

                “There you are,” she prodded Dorian’s tankard back across the bar. “Don’t get better than that. Inquisition’s finest.” She spat  heartily on the rag and resumed ‘cleaning’ the empty tankards.

                Dorian huffed. “Thedas’ chewiest, you mean.” He reluctantly drew out a dripping lump the size of his thumbnail, “what do you even call this?”

                “The best bits,” the barkeep chuckled, shaking her head at Dorian’s open disgust.

                “Is your ‘best’ any better if I have silver?” Dorian tried. “I’m not fussy. Something alcoholic would be splendid! Preferably liquid.” Dorian scorned.

                “Much as I like the taste o’ silver. The Qunari bought the last of my spirits: backcountry Reserve, some Orzammar mead too. Might be in for a delivery next week, but the barrels don’t last near as long since this bloody great tear in the sky-” The barkeep spun one of Dorian’s silver coins. “-Might be this Iron Bull likes silver enough to spare you a cup. Otherwise, better get chewin'.”

                “ _Vishante kaffas!_ ” Dorian grumbled. He wondered if it was worth sending one of the apothecary’s crew with some of his silver to see if some of the spirits could be commandeered on some ‘medicinal’ pretext. He told himself that sending someone else would save him being exposed to the Qunari’s putrid breath. After all, it was uncouth for a talented Tevinter mage to be unnerved by one, half-naked Qunari.

                Thankfully, Dorian did not need to work out a plan to requisition some Backcountry Reserve. A more hopeful opportunity presented itself that very morning.

                As the couriers from Val Royeux poured into Haven, one could not help but stare. While the majority of the masked men and women carried rolls of parchment heavy with their superior’s concerns, one voluminous noble stuck out like a sore thumb at the forefront of the Orlesian party. It would not have been difficult to mistake the noble for a well-dressed snoufleur. A regular-sized white mask topped the noble’s voluminous, burgundy-clad body.

                Dorian’s full attention was ignited as he noticed the noble’s retainers cradled black wicker caskets instead of parchments. Shining chevaliers led pack horses laden with further caskets and barrels. When he listened closely, he thought he could hear the sloshing of their contents. As weighed down as the noble’s packhorses were, the only horse Dorian felt sorry for was the glossy white stallion supporting the snoufleur-lord.

                He along with half of Haven soon learned the squat man astride his unlucky mount was Baron Frogaindre. An unfortunate yet fitting name. Clearly a member of minor Orlesian nobility. Frogaindre likely received his title through successful trade rather than birth. Good. That said something for the expected quality of his merchandise, although he would probably haggle harder than an Antivan whore.

                Dorian could practically taste the heady reds and crisp whites that Baron Frogaindre had undoubtedly brought along. The bard announcing his lord’s coming was a sweet-faced little thing. A shame that a glut of chevaliers prevented Dorian from enjoying a decent view of his lower half. He had the feeling that the bard’s youthful body would be just as pleasant as his voice. Not to mention that Dorian had yet to meet a bard with disappointing hands.

                Ever the opportunist, the now beaming mage detoured to his tent to perfect the curve of his moustache before winding his way back to the tavern. Dorian entered with a casual wave at the inkeep, as if he had not been at odds with the man an hour ago. Baron Frogaindre and his well armed chevaliers had spooked the usual morning patrons enough to leave an unoccupied bench close to their table.

                Dorian had a prime view of the Orlesian company, yet the bard was nowhere to be seen. Baron Frogaindre was addressing his commanding Chevalier in a languid voice. That the people of Orlais, who express their wealth so exubriantly, went about speaking like Tranquils continued to stump Dorian. But you had to play their ‘Game’, and that meant donning their masks.

                Dorian introduced himself formally as the Herald’s _advisor_ in the arcane arts. It would not do in such esteemed company to admit that the Herald of Andraste was undergoing mentoring in basic offensive magic. He delivered the greeting in a forced monotone and kept his features as blank as possible.

                Baron Frogaindre incline his head graciously, “It is a pleasure to meet someone someone who serves the Herald himself.” Dorian had to bite his tongue to stop himself from spitting that Altus do not _serve_. Dorian’s displeasure must not have been as hidden as he thought. For the Baron upped the flattery in typical Orlesian excess, “your skills must be unsurpassed. I wonder whether you would honour us with a short demonstration? It has been a long time since I had the joy to witness the tricks of a master mage.”

 _Tricks? Was this Baron expecting a rehearsed magic show?_ Dorian had been whisked past a few travelling show mage performances on the streets of Minrathous. It could only be assumed that the troupes worked Orlais too. From what Dorian had been able to glimpse, the shows revolved around the story of a motley clad mage attempting to woo a spangly-dressed woman. The suitor sprouted flowered vines from sleeves and trouser cuffs, made burly competitors ‘disappear’ and fashioned bouquets of fire.

                Now, fire he _could_ do. If it meant access to a decent bottle of wine then Dorian would be the best show-mage these Orleisans had ever set eyes upon.

                The table was silent with anticipation as Dorian withdrew his staff with a flourish. He stroked his fingers almost languidly, following the curve of the coiled snake atop his staff. A lick of green fire shot from the serpent’s open mouth. That one was always guaranteed to impress. One of the Chevaliers let out an alarmed ‘squeak!” and was thumped on the back by a peer. Further tendrils of scarlet flame spouted upright from Dorian’s staff, twisting elegantly. Each lance of red-gold fire ended in a blazing white bulb. To a cacophony of gasps and squeals, the bulbs burst to reveal ruby red petals of flame.

“You can touch them,” Dorian revealed, passing a hand through the fiery bounquet.

                Baron Frogaindre was the first to outstretch his fat fingers to the fiery petals. Before he knew what was happening, Dorian was surrounded by incessant Orlesians. They plucked and grasped at his bouquet, all their courtesies forgotten as the shoved and wheedled for position.

                When the audience had settled back down, Dorian decided that magic was most certainly the way to the Baron’s bottles. He engulfed the bouquet in a dramatic whoosh of black smoke. The startled shrieks melted into a stunned silence as the Orlesians saw what Dorian was holding. A single, golden rose. Looking down at his handiwork, Dorian found he had impressed even himself. The rose was perfectly details, thorns and all. Of course like all beautiful things, it would not last. The flower would be dropping its petals within hours. The delicate stem would eventually fold in on itself, collapsing the delicate form entirely. Not that he was about to tell the Orlesians.

                “ _Trebiere!_ Marvellous!”

                “How much for a dozen? My betrothed will be delighted!”

                “ _Encore! Encore! Bravo_ , mage”

                Dorian raised his hands, ceasing the round of compliments. “Friends, I would be honoured to demonstrate further.” He bowed unreservedly at the Baron, rising on one knee to offer him the golden rose. “But I am _parched_. My dear Baron, I understand you are a man of refined taste. I can hardly wait to sample Orlais’ finest vintages.”

                The Baron chukled softly, twirling the rose as delicately as his sausage fingers would allow. “Very well, mage. Come, you must try the Brisse burgundy. Oh, and fetch the fizzing lyrium wine.” he commanded one of his servants. "It's a new invention," he whispered to Dorian behind his cupped, bejeweled hand, "I believe you will be enchanted."

                The burgandy was devine. Punchy and warm taste of summer. He relished three sample glasses and a quarter bottle of the lyrium wine. He had tried lyrium wine before, but not a fizzing variety. The Baron boasted at length of the fizzing wine's invigorating properties, but by that point Dorian was hardly in a fit state to listen.

                He was accompanied back to his tent by two of the Baron's serving men. Each carried a further four full bottles of the lyrium wine. He could hardly wait to share a bottle with Roycen.

                Dorian had not felt so happy in a long time.

 

* * *

 

                To say Roycen Trevelyan was a man stretched thin was an understatement. Dorian started the morning of their would-be third training session by wandering about Haven as casually as possible in search of his protégée. The word was he was holed up in the War Room.

                Dorian took up position in a shadowy corner of the Chantry, attempting to conduct himself with a lot more patience than he felt. There was an open bottle of fizzing lyrium wine, the delectable _Petille Du Blanc_ in his tent. The Baron and he had shared a quarter bottle. Now he was almost sober, he wished he had not missed out on hearing about the cutting-edge vintage and its properties. Lyrium wine was never the same as drinking alcohol.

                After half of the bottle on an empty stomach, Dorian was certain he could do anything, face anything. He made a note to obtain such a wine should he ever need to face his father.

                Dorian was vaguely aware that Roycen was later for their mentoring session, so set out in search of him. They could finish the first bottle together on the short journey to the training hollow. The young mage was nowehere to be found however. The thought of his rare beverage flattening by the moment was tragic as he paced about in the shadowy places of the Chantry's main hall.

                Dorian was just about ready to concede defeat and savour what he could of the lyrium wine, when the War Room doors swung open. Roycen did not even notice Dorian as he stormed out of the open Chantry doors. The Antivan ambassador, Josephine followed in a flushed pursuit. Her shiny shoes clapped ridiculously against the stone floor as she half strutted-half-pranced after her quarry. An Antivan _lady could hardly be seen running, after all_.

                Dorian chuckled darkly from his corner, only to be silenced by a flash of exasperation from Josephine. It dawned on him that there could be more in her charged look than disapproval of his humour. He had up until now experienced only the best in practiced courtesy from Haven’s ambassador.

                There could only be one source of ire towards him: The flock of hens had resumed their clucking over the dangers of a Tevinter mage privately tutoring their prize chick. Was it truly unfathomable to believe that Dorian was an excellent mentor? If the training so far was anything to go by, he was the best thing for Roycen’s offensive magic. The young mage was growing deadlier by the hour. Hopefully Roycen would soon do away entirely with those ridiculous daggers of his. Anyone who did not know Roycen could easily mistake him for a rogue before a mage.

                Dorian enquired on the Herald's whereabouts on the way back to his tent, but Roycen may well have been invisible for all that anyone could tell him. That, or they still didn’t trust him. At least there was less open spitting these days.

                Back in his tent, there was nothing to show that Roycen had stopped by, that he even realised he was over an hour late into their session. The thought of savouring the lyrium wine for the journey to the hollow was swiftly abandoned. The remaining half bottle of the cool, fizzing wine slipped down his throat in an unbroken stream. His nerve endings were immediately tingling, his senses all the more alive. Just as last night when he sampled the _Petille Du Blanc_ , his head felt lighter – but not in the way of being unable to count the empty glasses. No, this feeling was fresher, liberating. And best of all, Dorian felt completely in control.

                A smile fixed itself to his lips despite the altercation he had glimpsed between Roycen and Josephine, and that he was the most likely cause of it. As far as magically imbued alcohol went, this variety was exceptional.

 

* * *

 

                Roycen appeared just as Dorian was necking the last of the first bottle. He felt fantastically detached and waggled his fingers in a wave to Roycen, whose wavy blonde hair was a little more askew than usual this morning. His cheeks were flushed from running. Roycen should run more often. Dorian pondered on how he could get Roycen to run, and chuckled darkly to himself.

                Sorry... I’m... late.” Roycen panted. Dorian said nothing. If he spoke, it would be flirting of the most criminal nature. And Roycen made it clear yesterday that he wanted no flirting. No, the Herald wanted to fulfil his _duties_ without the distraction of his handsome self.

               Dorian focused on getting his breathing on an even keel. Roycen nudged the empty bottle with the toe of his boot. “Um, bit early for that, Dorian. Do all the Altus see breakfast as an opportunity to get drunk?” he asked.

                “This?” Dorian shook empty bottle. “If you were a little more well travelled, you would know that Orlesian lyrium wine is revitalising rather than potent– the _perfect_ morning beverage for the exacting mentor. Achieving perfection is thirsty work, after all. _So is running_ ,” his eyes hungily travelled the length of Roycen’s body, before he remembered that flirting was off limits. “And I don’t need _an opportunity_ to get drunk, only the right provisions. Maker knows that it’s hard enough to get anywhere near sodden around here. Even the ale has a tang of _damp dog_ to it. A man can only stand for so much. It’s like you enjoy seeing me suffer,” he pouted.

                Roycen’s hint of a smile belied his serious tone. “I can't imagine you would be anywhere near as useful if the contents of the tavern’s cellar was more to your taste.” Roycen closed the gap between them. He sat casually on Dorian’s table _(box)_ , with one leg under him. His eyes were exceptionally green today. “I’ve heard you do the most interesting tricks for a good bottle. Where’s my golden flower?”

                If Dorian had still been drinking he would have spat all over the face of Andraste’s chosen.

                _Now that was flirting - surely!_ The scoundrel! As it was, Dorian merely choked indecently, to Roycen’s tortuous amusement.

                “I’ll have you know that I only entertained that Orlesian frog because—” he began in force, only to be rudely interrupted by a weightless punch to his sleeveless arm.

                “—Because of the quality of his refreshments. Yeah. Leliana told me as much. You should probably know that she’s venting at our little training arrangement. She would have it so you are never out of sight of her little birds.”

                “And Josephine?” Roycen looked questioningly at Dorian. Of course... Roycen had not noticed Dorian waiting in the Chantry.

                “She has similar complaints,” Roycen sighed.

                Dorian felt a pang of loss that he would be unlikely to spend any further time alone in Roycen’s company. “And of course that brings a premature end to our private sessions. I should be flattered at all the attention really, but I fear a flock of fledgling nightingales will only prove a distracting presence to your development.”

                “Oh, don’t worry about that. Our sessions will still be as private as ever.”

                “Oh?”

                “I made Leliana swear not to interfere. Not in this.”

                “You cowed the nightingale?”

                “She agreed, yes. And the hollow is secluded enough that it will be difficult for anyone to spy on us. Don’t worry about Josephine either. The rest of the mages will be here within days. Then we will be out in force to close the breach. Any doubts will be blown out of the water when they see how well we have used the time.”

                “Quite. You can thank me by ensuring there is always fine wine available.” Roycen wrinkled his nose. “It doesn’t have to be Orlesian!” Dorian insisted, “just wine. Please.”

                “I’ll speak to the quartermaster about it.” Roycen sighed.

                “Has anyone mentioned how amazing you are? I mean, apart from all that Herald of Andraste business.”

                “I could be better, and I am truly sorry for being so late for our session—"

                “—Say no more, let us be on our way!”

                Roycen sighed, “I _will_ be there, but I have something to do first. Meet me at the Hollow?”

                Dorian couldn’t help wondering if Roycen still cared about how it appeared to be walking side by side with the ‘heathen Tevinter mage’. Perhaps Roycen was more experienced at playing ‘the Game’ than he seemed. While Dorian was indeed a useful piece on the table, it would not do for the common folk to see their white knight to sidle up too closely with the black mage.

                With the recent influx of Orlesians it did well for the young man to take additional precautions. Heck, he had even been pried out of his leathers and was wearing a sky blue tunic with fitted, cream trousers of a style not too out of date in Orlesian fashion. His grey mage's robes completed the picture.

                Thinking that he had time to spare, Dorian spent a considerable amount of time choosing between two sets of gloves, before settling on the red silk and fennec fur. A dashing splash of colour against his dark robes. He completed the ensemble with a crimson, quilted scarf.

               

* * *

 

                Roycen intended to make peace with Josephine, then join Dorian in the hollow. Earlier, he had only lost it with Josephine for one reason. The only reason that got him really riled up among his advisors. _Dorian Pavus._ Namely the level of trust he was placing in the Tevinter mage. It was not even Josephine’s fault. Ever the professional, she had put her own, Cassandra’s and Leliana’s concerns as softly as possible. She did not once raise her voice, but for all that helped, she may as well have grabbed his cheeks and been shouting into his ear. The thing that really did it for was the soft emphasis littering her words: “You must know what this looks like to the elves who have pledged themselves to our cause. There are freed slaves under our protection relying on the Herald’s distinction between right and wrong. You say that he is perfectly qualified to mentor you, that his inferno magic is unsurpassed. Pavus also practiced Necormancy in Nevarra, not to mention the likelihood that he has intimate knowledge of blood magic. We fear only for your wellbeing—”

                “Except I don't need your fears. I would appreciate you focusing energy on the real threats to the Inquisition. Maker knows we have enough of those.” Roycen growled. The clenched grip on his staff was the only thing tampering his anger. It was not nearly enough. “I am not the child you still think I am. This,-” he held his marked hand to Josephine’s startled brown eyes, “-is what you should all fear for. That the anchor will fail, that our attempt on the breach will fail, that rifts will swallow all of Thedas! And _I_ fear that it should have been someone else. Well you know what?” Josephine thought better than to answer him. “It _SHOULD_ have been someone else!” Roycen snapped.

                They stood in silence, the air fizzing from Roycen’s outburst. Josephine barely composed and he shuddering with small, sharp breaths. When he next spoke, it was in a croaked whisper. “It _should_ have been someone else. But it wasn’t. The Inquisition got me, _Thedas_ got me. And I have this.” He lightly touched the mark with his other hand. “But we are all fooling ourselves if we don’t think I need all the help I can get. Dorian is trying to help me and it would be a damn sight easier for all of us if you’d let him!”

                Jospehine broke from her statuesque calm. “We will discuss this further,” she insisted. “I appreciate there are multiple sides to every view, but surely you appreciate—”

                “Josephine!” Roycen snapped. “Whatever you’ve rehearsed to persuade me. I don’t. Want to. Hear it.”

                “But, if you would only—”

                “—I have an appointment.”

                “But, I cleared your morning!”

                “ _My_ morning. You no longer have permission to schedule my mornings.”

                “Roycen Aster Trevelyan—”

                That was the final straw. Roycen could not help but hear the ambassador’s words with his mother’s voice.

                “I am NOT a child, Josephine! You will honour my decision.” He had stormed from the room without looking back at his ambassador.

 

        

 


	12. Duty and Distraction - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Distraction and Duty continued.
> 
> I promise that that the breach will be addressed in the next chapter. I haven't forgotten, honest!

                By the time Dorian had finished the second bottle of the Orleisan lyrium wine, he was deep into the whispery forest. He popped open the third, delighting in the lavish fizz on his tongue, the cool slipping sensation in his throat. A burst of elation rushed through his body. Dorian thought of all the failed experiments back in Minrathous. Of the dusk moth he had finally reanimated so convincingly, only to fall to ash in his fingers the moment the spell was lifted. And his master plan for purifying the contagion of the water in the city’s lower levels, to put an end to the vile outbreaks of shitting sickness among the lower classes and slaves. Every one of those who drank his magically treated water died quickly. He was the only Altus who cared of their passing. Even then, he had not been certain what was worse: the deaths, or the fact that the magic he had theorised so intensively had failed to deliver.

                Today all those failures belonged to some other Dorian Pavus. This new Dorian yearned to be back in Minrathous, because he was certain beyond anything that he could turn even the most pitiful of his failed experiments into successes to sing of. Bards would proclaim of his myriad feats! He would use his irresistible charm to make Tevinter more than the shadowy, despised nation it had become! But first, he would make his holy Heraldness a mage to be reckoned with.

                Buzzing with borrowed boldness, he saw the dank, monotonous forest with fresh eyes. Why not begin his grand works with an injection of his refined taste? He filled himself with mana until his dark skin sizzled. His palms filled with tears of crystallised light, which he swung into the heavy branches of pine flanking the narrow path through the woods. The crystals glittered splendidly against the dark needles. Next, he punched blasts of fire at the thick blanket of greenery above. The fire roared through layers of rustling canopy. Delicate strips of golden light poured through to the sun-starved grass below. The colour of the blades reminded Dorian of Roycen’s eyes turning emerald in firelight. He would have to teach the young mage how to form proper fireballs.

                Dorian scrambled through the rocky gap into their training hollow, thinking to perform improvements here too. If he could enrich the space with enough grandeur, then he might even be treated to the startled expression on Roycen’s face which he found so endearing. To work, then. The clearing was far too bright for his intentions. Dorian darkened the space with a deep purple mist, which he peppered with whirls of bright blue flame and delicate glowing orbs of starlight.

                _Better. But not nearly impressive enough._

                Dorian worked without reserve, expending reckless amounts of mana on his decorative illuminations. Not that he felt the usual drain, or any flicker of warning when his mana reserves became dangerously low. When Dorian finally deemed his transformation complete, the space was unrecognisable: a glittering grotto of pale blue and white lights made all the more ethereal when set against the dusky fog he had cast. He lay on the grass, admiring the beauty he had created, when he felt wetness on his left shoulder, the one his shirt left bare. He glugged the last drops from of the third bottle of Orlesian fizz before investigating. He prodded his shoulder, the fingers came back red. Blood. He must have scraped his arm on the rocks which framed the narrow entrance to the hollow. He never felt a thing. Still brimming with confidence from the wine, he was not alarmed that his left arm was red from shoulder to elbow.

 _Wrap it,_ piped a small voice of reason. _You are no healer. Wrap it. Stop the bleeding._

Dorian almost considered it, but this half-familiar voice was urging caution. Why should Dorian be cautious? To oblivion with that! Dorian could do _anything_. Why not fix the wound himself?

                Dorian pulled deeply from the fade, as he had a thousand times before, ignoring the tell-tale dragging sensation of insufficient mana. Dorian knitted the first half of the wound in a single tug of magic.

                _You idiot. What are you doing?_

The cut was partly sealed, but the ‘healed’ skin was pinched together in an ugly jagged line. No, that would not do at all. Dorian peeled the skin back apart, ignoring the warm rush of fresh blood. He told himself that even a mage as brilliant as he was allowed to take his time over such a delicate procedure. This time, the skin began to bind in a much straighter line. He was over halfway there when the magic failed, like a tap that had been turned off. Again and again Dorian reached for the fade, but he was only able to grasp slippery strands of magic, and then not even that. The partially repaired wound peeled open fully.

                A now panicked voice chanted in his head. _You are losing too much blood. Do something! Something... blood...  
_

Blood... Dorian thought, but thinking was becoming foggy. He needed more time. That was all. He could fix this. Time...that was it! He knew the words, he didn’t need reserves of mana. Not for this. Maintaining a fragile connection to the fade, he chanted in Tevene, bringing the wound to his lips. The air around his arm took on a warped appearance as the time manipulation worked. He closed his eyes, focusing on the words, until his arm lost feeling completely and the layer of blood glistened in place, literally frozen in the moment.

 

* * *

 

                The sun was too high in the sky by the time that Roycen was approaching their hollow. The light was harsh today, summer’s last hurrah before the seasons changed. The light turned the weathered stone mabari near the entrance of the hollow to a ghostly white and cast a long shadow.

He edged through the narrow gap into their clearing. Roycen’s jaw dropped as he realised how Dorian had occupied himself. The hollow had been transformed in to what was undoubtedly the most beautiful yet eerie setting he had ever seen. A purplish mist starved the place of sunlight, blue-white balls of magelights twinkled in the darkness. If only a proudly smirking Dorian were there, drinking in Roycen’s awe, the scene would be complete. But his mentor was conspicuously absent. Surely this was all done to impress him. Roycen found it hard to believe that Dorian would go to all this trouble and not make himself present to see how he reacted. Perhaps there was more further in.

                They always tended to train in the furthest corner from the entrance, partly to avoid discovery by curious passers-by but mainly to provide plenty of warning should bandits or the local wildlife fancy them as easy prey. Roycen made his way towards their usual corner. He felt the crucnch of dead grass under his boots, grass that had fallen victim to yesterday’s spells. Still no Dorian. Bemusement was replaced by concern, then dread, as he finally found his mentor slouched on the grass, facing away from him.

                At the sight of the blood coating Dorian’s arm, Roycen’s first thought was that he had been attacked. A bear, maybe? No. Dorian was too experienced to let himself get seriously injured like that. Bandits then? But there was no sign of a struggle. Just as he was about to call out, the pieces fit together into something he could barely believe. Horror choked him, paralysed him. Dorian half-turned and Roycen could fully take in the scene before him. Dorian’s left arm was red from the shoulder down and the mage was _licking_ at the blood, which didn’t seem to be flowing. The rest of Dorian’s body was pale and shuddering. He pulled glistening, red lips away from the bloodied arm, chanting in Tevene in a voice both lyrical and manic. The haunting sound sent shivers down Roycen’s spine. Dorian brought his arm to his mouth once more, oblivious to Roycen, entranced completely in... what else could this be but _blood magic_? _  
_

                The thought he might be sick as a swarm of emotions wrestled for dominance. Denial: _He would never! Dorian despised blood magic._ This was quickly shrouded in a blanket of doubt: _Were the others right to mistrust him?_ Finally, there was only the aching throb of betrayal. _He had trusted him, completely..._

                So slowly, Dorian went to lick his wound again, pausing in the action. The chanting stopped, the Tevinter's lidded eyes seeing Roycen for the first time. His usually soft grey irises were thin, his eyes all pupil. Dorian's crimson lips were moving, but Roycen did not hear the words, if there were any to hear.

                Without warning, the mage crumpled and became deathly still. Roycen could not get a grip on a single coherent thought, let alone make a decision. For long moments, he remained paralysed, when his feet finally made the decision for him. He kneeled at Dorian’s side and saw that the blood was now weeping profusely – that would have to wait. He felt Dorian’s neck. Skin cold where it should be warm with life. He pressed his cheek to Dorian’s chest. Breathing, but shallow. He repositioned himself behind Dorian’s head, tugging him into a half-sitting position. The older mage’s head lolled listlessly.

                Roycen was no healer, but he had come prepared for a rigorous training session. He struggled with his free hand to pop open vials of elfroot and lyrium potion from his belt and held Dorian’s head as steady as possible, pouring both potions simultaneously into his blood-crusted mouth. Roycen supported Dorian’s chin until he was certain most of the liquid had gone down. He wriggled backwards and laid Dorian onto his side. Next, Roycen cut Dorian’s black cloak from his back and sliced it into strips with one of his daggers. He bound the slick wound on his shoulder as tightly as he could before leaning over Dorian’s still unresponsive face. This close, he could see the mage’s whiskey-coloured skin had paled to the colour of parchment. He soaked another strip of Dorian’s cloak using water from his skin and gently dabbed at the sticky blood on his face. Eventually, there was nothing to do but wait. And wait he did. For how long the young mage could not say, only that it felt like hours had passed, when it was most likely less than a minute.

                Dorian came to in a start, as if he had not moments ago been at death’s door. Roycen’s hands jumped instinctively to his staff as Dorian bolted upright and... _no- Roycen was not seeing things_ \- shot him a dazzling smile made gruesome by blood. But more disturbing still were the Tevinter's eyes which were staring at Roycen with wild, unfocused pupils as if he were drunk.

                “You can thank me later.” Dorian said, gesturing proudly with shaking fingers at his fiery blue decorations.

                _What in Maker’s name?_ Roycen was speechless. Did Dorian not realise that Roycen had probably just saved his life despite being caught in highly suspicious circumstances? Did he not want to explain himself? Although, Roycen had to admit that Dorian no longer looked like a fearsome blood mage. Maybe there was still hope of another explanation for what Roycen had seen.

                Dorian was unfazed by Roycen’s lack of response. I’ll do Haven too,” he assured, “when we get back. But first, I thought I’d teach you how to draw a fire glyph so powerful, you could blast a druffalo into sizzling steaks. Simply add seasoning!" he beamed, slapping a hand on his knee. "Not that you Southernerns practice the art of seasoning. The _moment_ we return I am sending a Raven to my dear friend in Minrathous." Dorian had found his feet, casually plucking off clumps of bloody grass from his front as if this were completely normal. "The Inquisition needs cardamon, ginger, cinnamon! I am sick to my teeth of garlic."

                It was like the Tevinter was in overdrive. There was no way he was this arrogant. What was Roycen missing?

                “Dorian. I don’t think you understand what just happened. The blood!”

                Dorian sighed, if you could call it that. The act was more of an insincere puff of his cheeks. When Dorian spoke, he sounded impatient if anything. “I know! You have me drawn and quartered, dear man. The great Dorian Pavus overreached himself. Perish the thought!” he shuddered. “But I am otherwise perfect. Perfect teeth. Perfect hair. Perfect dress sense.” Dorian smirked, spinning on unsteady feet to show of his bloodied robes. He seemed to not notice the slashed cloak. A small mercy. 

                Dorian's ginned inanely. It was like his expression was outside of his control. Roycen was at a loss. Dorian’s ego might be one of the most inflated in Thedas, but this... it was almost like...

                “Dorian, have you _taken_ something?”

                “The hearts of many lucky men and the tears of hopeful maidens.”

                “ _Today_ , Dorian,” Roycen specified.

                “OH! Some truly splendid Orelsian fizz. Lyrium wine, I attest there’s nothing like it.”

                “How much?” 

                “Only three.”

                "Three glasses?"

                " _Bottles_ , dearest Trevelyan. Fear not! I saved the last for you."

                That would explain it. Relief flooded Roycen as everything fell into place. Dorian was impaired, not dangerous, he probably injured himself accidently and bodged the healing. The blood on his arm had been stilled because Dorian was using time manipulation, _not blood magic_. Roycen could not decide which of them was the greater fool.

                 Thankfully, Roycen had something which might eliminate the need to drag the impaired mage to the healing tents in this state. He dug about in one of his trouser pockets, he had it here somewhere...

                “Drink this,” Roycen ordered, unstopping a tiny conical vial and offering it to Dorian.

                Dorian eyed the deep blue liquid inside with bright-eyed curiosity. “What is this, pray tell?”

                “A Southern delicacy. Good for your... hair?” Roycen floundered. Before he could think of more, Dorian had gulped the liquid down and was already fighting an inevitable sleep. The broad spectrum anti-neurotic would shut his body down again as it worked. Specifically designed to neutralise the potent neurotoxins of the snakes common in the Free Marches, Roycen trusted it would work just as well for the lyrium wine, which seemed to affect the sense of reality in a similar way to snake venom.

                Roycen’s younger sister had never let him forget the day he was bitten on the ankle. He spent the entire morning believing he was walking on water, when in reality he was splashing stupidly in the shallows. As his bite was nothing too serious, his mother had not felt it worthwhile to use a dose of the family’s precious anti-neurotic. He had however, been bitten more severely on several other occasions. He knew there was nothing so disheartening as waking to the starkness of reality, having experienced the liberating confidence that a neurotoxin brings.

                Roycen took care to ease the older mage gently on the grass as he succumbed to a deep sleep. Roycen knew from experience that he would be out for a while, and laid on his side to monitor Dorian's breathing and check on his hasty bandaging work from earlier. The Tevinter's chest rose evenly with each breath and the cloak rags ties around the wound were holding fast.

                When Dorian’s pale grey eyes finally opened again, Roycen could see shame in their depths. Dorian groaned and clenched his fists tightly until they trembled, before going entirely limp again. Just as Roycen feared he was falling unconscious once more, Dorian spoke, rolling to face Roycen by averting his gaze all the same.

                “...be honest...need to know...” he muttered, staring intently at a patch of bloodied grass.

                _Roycen be honest?_ It was Dorian who needed to explain exactly what had occurred for him to reach this state!

                Having found the strength to sit up, Dorian tried again. “Please. Be honest. Before you knew about the lyrium wine... I need to know. Did you think... _blood magic_?” He took in Roycen’s dark expression. “You didn’t, didn’t you?” he asked flatly.

                “I did at first,” Roycen admitted. “I didn’t want to believe it, but you can imagine what I saw.”

                Dorian remained motionless, but did open his eyes again, staring blankly into nothingness for a long time before finding the energy to respond.

                Dorian shocked Roycen by pulling himself upright and looking at Roycen scathingly. “How dare you!” the older mage growled. Roycen found himself gripping his staff defensively.

                “I saw you chanting! Licking a wound you appeared to have self-inflicted! You must know how it looked.” Roycen explained.

                Dorian replied through gritted teeth. “I scraped my arm by _accident_. The lyrium buzz prevented me from knowing when my mana was spent, consequently, my healing attempts only butchered the wound. As for the chanting, I was stemming the flow of time. I had just enough of a sense of self preservation to know that I was bleeding out. Else I would have probably been dead before you found me. There was a moment when I thought you were going to leave me to bleed out.”

                “For a moment, I was.” Roycen admitted. "But I helped you anyway," he reminded.

                “Even though you took me for a _blood mage_. What made you stay?” Dorian demanded, his grey eyes boring into Roycen's. It was impossible to look away. This conversation was going nothing like Roycen had expected.

                There was so much Roycen wanted to say: that he had barely stopped thinking about the way Dorian had held him when they kissed three days ago. That it was only with him that Roycen could be less than the Herald again. That losing Dorian was _impossible_ , blood mage or not. Just as it was impossible to not be distracted by him, however much he wanted to keep his focus clear.

                Instead Roycen only said, “You are a good mentor, when not intoxicated that is. And it’s past time we got you to a healer who knows what they’re doing.”

                Dorian nodded but did not seem entirely satisfied. Roycen thanked the Maker that he did not probe any further. Injured and weak as he was, Dorian's protestations of being able to make his own way were futile as Roycen helped him to his feet and supported his weight where he could. By the time they reached the gates of Haven, Roycen was aching from the strain of supporting the heavier man, but when a crowd of Inquisition soldiers flocked to relieve him, Roycen almost barked for them to leave. Almost.

              Roycen found himself again in possession of Dorian's staff. Dorian had muttered something about not wanting to get it dirty moments before he was guided under the heavy white material of the matron's tent.

                Roycen absently thumbed the coiled serpent atop Dorian’s staff and forced his feet to move in the direction of his quarters.


	13. To Break the Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start happening from here, really. I applaud your patience.

**To Break the Breach**

               Roycen watched with forced patience. The rabble of mages poured through Haven’s gates. All free mages, here by invitation. Yet Cullen had dispatched an entire squad for an escort.

               All Roycen wanted to do was throw himself into the crowd and find someone he recognised. Surely some of his friends from the Ostwick Circle had made it out. They can’t have all died in the rebel mage’s ruthless charge on their Circle, or since in the ongoing fighting.

               In another life, he might have been a part of the rebellion – or have had his life snuffed out by them. The commanders of the current mage rebellion were fast becoming notorious for ruthlessly storming Circles with little regard for human life. From what Grand Enchanter Fiona had told him, the unforgiving attacks on Circles were nothing to do with her. Apparently she had sent envoys to try and tame the situation. Roycen had little choice but to take Fiona at her word; the Inquisition needed her contscts, her mages. Even if her command of the rebellion was only an illusion, her forces scattered and the group's original motives in tatters.

                True to her word, the raven messages she had fixed with her seal had brought a rain of mages down on Haven. From his high vantage point on the Chantry’s steps with Cullen, Josephine and Leliana, Roycen could not hope to make out faces in the sea of cloaks and staves.

               Cullen breathed a curse at Roycen’s right, beady blue eyes not knowing where to look. The ex-Templar commander was tightly sprung, and who could blame him? In another life, he would have been responsible for trying to subdue mages such as these. Grand Enchanter Fiona had more than delivered on her initial promise of 300. Josephine flicked deftly at an abacus, pausing only to scratch furiously at her leaf of parchment before resuming the count.

               There was no one here that could understand, but Roycen missed Ostwick every day. The rebels may spit ‘prison’ at the mention of any pro-Circle argument, but for Roycen his Circle was home. Once harrowed, Roycen made the choice like so many others to stay. The only pleasure he took in the outside world was in hunting, which unlike magic he had always been competent in. When he was chosen to travel all the way to Haven to speak at the conclave, accepting the honour was one of the hardest decisions he had ever made. And now he could never return. There was nothing to go back to but rubble and heartache.

               By now, he had expected the Chantry to have published a full report of the dead. The papers he had seen so far thoroughly detailed the fate of every Templar in his Circle, but had less to say on the apprentices and harrowed mages. And when it came to the tranquils there was not a single drop of ink on parchment.

               The first document that Roycen had been presented with had certainly looked the part: he broke the seal to find spidery calligraphy done in red ink on embossed Chantry parchment. Yet the ‘report’ was only a list of names of those known to have lived in the Ostwick Circle and their ‘statuses’: The dead Templars were all marked ‘slain in duty’, the dead mages whose bodies had been identifiable were marked only as ‘deceased’. Most of the mages were marked as ‘status unknown’, but there was one other phrase:‘fugitive rebel’, meaning mages from Ostwick who were believed to have gone over to their attackers. ‘Fugtives’ the Chantry dared to call their charges, those they had sworn to keep safe!

           As if it wasn’t the Chantry’s fault that the Circle’s defences were threadbare at best. Not to mention their Templars were a blinkered force, only seeking the threats inside their Circle. For the Ostwick apprentices, with their Templars ‘slain in duty’, the choice would have been death or surrender: forgotten martyr or forced fugitive.

       If anyone had gotten out then it was not too far-fetched to believe that they might be among the press of mages drawing ever closer. The first of the mages were close enough to make out their features.

       And then Roycen saw her: _Macy_.

       The freckled, red-haired apprentice who loved books more than he did. Macy, who never let anything interfere when she was working on one of her research projects, and who was now shooting Roycen the coldest look of loathing he had ever seen. He was so distressed that he didn’t feel the cold fingers of mental intrusion until it was too late. His head throbbed as he fought for control of his own mind, but Macy was an accomplished apprentice. When the initial pain finally diminished, Roycen was seeing with Macys’ eyes. He was in Ostwick... what was left of it.

               _Roycen’s breath caught in his throat as he walked the blasted ruins of his home. He heard a bloodcurdling scream. It was so close, Macy. It was Macy who was screaming. And he was Macy. His small, freckled hands flung to his face. Roycen had no way to shut Macy’s eyes, no way to peel the image from his consciousness._

_A human arm. Melted, sickeningly twisted. And tiny. A child. There was no way of knowing whose. Macy’s wracking sobs shattered Roycen. They buckled to their knees, causing a cloud of ash to billow around them._

               A black veil fell on the scene. He was back in Haven. Macy was being dragged away in Cullen's bear grip. That did not stop her spitting words meant only for him:

               _“Where were you, Roycen? When I heard you were the Chantry’s Herald of Andraste, I didn’t believe it. Not you. How could you, after everything the Chantry does to us!? It’s because of people like you that we will never be free, that the rebels have to-have to... you saw what they did! Why do you believe the Chantry’s lies, Roycen? WHY?_

               Roycen was kneeling with his eyes closed, but he could not block out the angry swirl of sound around him. Suddenly, his legs had no weight. No, he was being carried. He could smell Cassandra's faint talcum scent and hear her lilting voice. _  
_

                                                                                               ...

               Roycen jerked upright in a start. He was in a bed, but not his own. He needed to see Macy. He needed to tell her that everything she had said was right. He should have been at Ostwick. Being the Herald could never make up for that. He would not be seen as the Chantry's chosen for another second.

               Leliana placed a light hand on his wrist. A rare gesture of compassion from the usually cool detached Spymaster, but it worked in grounding him. If she had tried to restrain him, it probably would have had the opposite effect. As it was, Roycen found himself sinking back into the pillow. He asked for Macy, but Leliana shook her head, explaining at length why it was not possible. Roycen had already closed his eyes at the shake of her head. He tried not to think about the horrors that the young apprentice had shown him.

               “Speak. Speak to us. Roycen, speak!”

_Faces swarmed in front of him. Cullen... Sera... Cassandra... now it was Solas. His rhythmic voice was calming._

               Roycen offered each visitor a single word, “No.”

               “What does he mean, no?”

            _That was Cassandra._

               “ I believe his meaning is clear,” Solas stated. “He is dealing with the after effects an unknown mental intrusion. As the girl is a survivor of Ostwick, we may take an educated guess at the context for the Herald’s turmoil.

               “Fuck guesswork.”

            _Was that Dorian? He never curses in the common tongue._

               “Shittin’ right. We need a plan already.”

               _Sera._

               Their faces hovered over him. Sera was biting her lip, Roycen had never seen her look so serious. And Dorian looked... terrifying. Both of them were speaking to Roycen, but he seemed capable of only one word. “No.”

_He tried to sit up and tell them, he couldn’t be the Herald. He just couldn’t. It wasn’t meant to be him, there had been a mistake and he was sorry but-_

               The faces of his two friends withdrew. He felt a cool liquid slipping down his throat. Roycen looked into Solas’ calm blue eyes as he fell under.

              

                “Are we all just going to stand here while the Herald falls to pieces?” Dorian barked, pacing so quickly that his robes flapped.

                "He needs time and rest," Solas answered, before turning to a haggard looking Cassandra. "I trust the girl is safely confined?"

                "She is with the commander," Cassandra stated, wringing her gauntlet clad hands. "We were too slow," she sighed, "we should have seen."

                "Yes, you should have," Dorian snapped. He paused in his circuiting of the small room to glare vehemently at them all.

 

* * *

 

               The next morning, Roycen had regained the power of speech and rationality, but he was also hardened in his resolve that he was no longer the Herald. No one would let him see Macy. Leliana repeatedly assured him that she was ‘safe’, whatever that meant.

               Roycen recited his reasoning patiently to every visitor, except he also tasked Solas with finding a way to transfer the anchor to someone more suitable. Heck, Solas could take it if he wanted, or anyone. Let there be a vote, a lottery – anything!

               For Dorian too, he added the further argument that he was an inadequate mage at best, despite his week of progression under the Tevinter’s instruction.

               “I can’t do this,” Roycen said for the tenth time, “the Breach. Any of it. How can I channel the power of five hundred mages? Let someone else do it. Someone who at least has a chance.”

               Dorian paused carefully, considering his response. “It is possible that the task is beyond you. Have you any experience of collaborative casting?”

               “None.”

               The older mage paced, deep in thought. He circled the room before coming up close again. Roycen breathed in deeply, the air heavy with the mage’s smoke and cinnamon scent. Dorian lightly placed two fingers at his chin. Roycen allowed his face to be lifted. The numbness overrode the will to push Dorian away.

               Roycen saw a flicker of hesitation in those grey eyes, even as Dorian cupped his fingers gently around his jaw.

               “Do you trust me?”

              _What sort of a question was that?_

               Dorian's grip on his jaw prevented Roycen from looking away as he now wanted to. The best he could manage was to place his hand over Dorian’s, attempting to pull the older mage’s hand from his face. The older mage shifted his grip defensively. Roycen quickly gave up and gave a restricted sigh. Dorian’s voice was heavy with tension as he asked again, “Well... do you trust me?”

               “I think so,” Roycen admitted.

               The older mage finally dropped his fingers from Roycen's chin, but was unsatisfied with his answer. “How so?”

               Roycen had no rehearsed response for this line of questioning. He decided there was nothing to be lost for being truthful.

               “I trust you to have my back in the battles we are yet to face. And I will face them with the Inquisition, just not as the Herald. I trust that you will continue to serve the Inquisition too, whatever happens with the Breach. What is this about, Dorian? I appreciate the concern but you cannot help me with this. I need to be more than I am... its more than anyone could hope to do in a week. You tried your best.”

               “My dear Trevelyan. Why do you insist on underestimating me?” Dorian’s voice had lowered to a guttural whisper. He leaned in close to the point of almost touching. Trevelyan squeezed his eyes shut, denying the temptation to fall into a fast embrace.

               “Dorian...” Roycen warned, his voice not as authoritative as he wanted.

               The older mage stepped back, withdrawing the precious warmth and intoxicating scent.

               Dorian chuckled darkly to himself. “Oh yes, you find me distracting. Forgive me. I had quite forgotten that flirting was forbidden.” Dorian’s eyes twinkled. Roycen knew that look... "As I said, do not underestimate me. I have an idea.”

               “Is it dangerous?” Roycen found himself asking.

               “No more dangerous than channelling the mana of hundreds of mages into your anchor. Although what I propose would most likely be quite uncomfortable.” Roycen knew he could not be the Herald, but that did not mean he was not curious. He had always been fascinated by obscure magic. “And,” Dorian continued, “you must trust me. None of this ‘ I trust you to do well by the Inquisition’ business. Do you, Roycen Trevelyan trust Dorian of house Pavus and his fiendishly brilliant plan?”

               “What plan?”

               Dorian groaned. “Not the answer I need to be able to tell you.”

               “Can I at least know the basic prinicple?” Roycen asked.

               “Best if you don’t,” Dorian muttered. “This goes easier on an unsuspecting mage... not that it has been attempted with magic like that of the anchor. And this could possibly be the first time this branch of magic would be used for a noble purpose.”

               Dorian’s answer sent Roycen’s imagination racing into turmoil: What in Maker’s name was Dorian intending? How could he possibly expect his trust after a comment like that?

               Roycen wanted nothing more than to storm from the room and confront Cassandra, Cullen and the others as he should have done the moment they tried to make him Herald, to make them believe him. He could not do this. Surrounded by talented peers it was easy to fall into the illusion that he was capable too. But he was just another Circle mage who had survived his Harrowing with the skin of his teeth. A man whose family had condemned him to a life of captivity. A man who could not even find justice for the murder of his fellow mages and apprentices when they were blown to pieces. He was just another Andrastian who had once taken comfort in his faith but was now just another Chantry pawn...

               Roycen fell to his knees, the thick press of emotion finally breaking him. A hot flush of tears seeped down Roycen’s cheeks, only adding to his anger and shame.

               Dorian was there in a heavy swish of fabric. His arms wrapped around Roycen’s small frame. For a while Roycen was aware of little else than the quivering muscle of Dorian’s bare bicep as the older mage clung tighter, squeezing the air from Roycen’s heavy chest.

               Through the fog of emotion Roycen eventually plucked the odd phrase from Dorian’s incessant tumble of words: I never... didn’t... please... sorry... _Roycen, please_." At the sound of his name erupting half strangled in emotion, Roycen finally allowed himself to crumple fully into the older mage’s embrace, stopping the stream of apologies from Dorian’s mouth.

               Neither man was aware of how much time passed as they clung to each other. By the time that Roycen could not cry another tear, he had made a decision. Roycen untwined his hands from around Dorian’s shoulders and leaned back.

               Now Dorian was the one who couldn’t look at him. Roycen mirrored Dorian’s earlier action, putting two fingers to the older mage’s chin. His dove grey eyes flew open in shock, his mouth slack in an untrained expression.

               “Do not apologise. You did not do this to me,” Roycen assured him. “I have been putting on a brave face for far too long.” he sighed, waiting for Dorian’s eyes to stop their avoiding dance. Realising that this was a lost cause, Roycen cupped Dorian’s chin firmly so there could be no looking away. “I trust you. And I need you to tell the truth. Would your plan make up for my inadequacies?”

               “My dear Trevelyan, my plan will make history. Yet it will be your name in the history books.”

               It was enough. Roycen gritted himself in newfound resolve. It would be weeks before Solas could find a way of transferring the anchor, if it was even possible. If he died in this attempt on the Breach, perhaps the gift would be passed on to another. But if the Breach could be ended tonight... if there truly was a way to make him strong enough, Roycen had to try.

               “Then you have my permission to put whatever groundbreaking plan you have into action.”

               Dorian stared at him as if with disbelief before finally speaking. “If this is to work, I will need a signal. Can you think of a word? Something you would not say accidentally.”

“How about _Mehdri_?” Roycen suggested, hoping he was pronouncing it right.

Dorian nodded. “ _Mehdri_ it is. Speak this only if when you are at breaking point, if the anchor is falling completely beyond your will. And keep me close.”

“I will.” Roycen promised. Dorian fiercely embraced him once more. Roycen repeated his promise into the older mage's shoulder.

 

* * *

 

               The advance party were swept off their feet in the blast when Roycen’s anchor struck the heart of the Breach. The connection trembled, but did not sever. The air hummed thick with mana as five hundred mages pooled mana energy to power the anchor. As usual the old magic of the anchor was causing havoc with every mage's abilities, but so far the stream of mana had been consistent enough.

               Following the blast of energy from the Breach, Cassandra was already back on her feet. She yanked Roycen up bodily, crying encouragement in his ear. The world became a spinning rush of pain but magnified coursing along his arm from his marked hand set against the angry green swirl of the breach. 

               In only a few minutes, funelling the mana of hundreds had reduced Roycen to a wreck. His arm was an agony of spasms as wave after wave of power was swallowed up by the Breach, _and still the rip in the veil showed no sign of peeling apart!_ The demons had so far been kept away of Roycen's party, but how long could that last?

               Roycen had just enough awareness left beyond the pain to realise the worst had happened. It wasn’t working! The wisps of mana he was not able to absorb rushed against his skin. He couldn’t take any more! A sudden pull of the anchor caused his body to lurch, so he practically fell into Dorian. The older mage weaved an arm around his back. Dorian’s fingers knotted into Roycen’s cloak providing much needed physical support. Roycen held on for as long as he could before letting the word escape him.

               “ _Mehdri!_ ”

               The effect was nearly instantaneous. A feeling of being detached... a blissful release from the pressure. The mana stretching him to breaking point became thin, bearable. Dorian's arm at his back trembled. It was with a horror of realisation that Roycen realised Dorian was taking the mana – no, _not taking_... storing. Roycen could finally focus on closing the Breach.

               That was, until the mana Dorian stored cycled back into Roycen's own body. The recycled mana filled every nerve in Roycen’s body with hot needles. His marked hand began to spasm again, the anchor's connection wavered until barely a few shining strands connected him to the Breach.

               _Not now... he was so close!_

               Solas’ angular face appeared before him. He didn’t know whether Solas was about to attack Dorian or... or...? _Oh_. A beautiful numbness swept over his body, masking the pain of Dorian’s magic. Solas continued to flood Roycen with healing magic until he could think clearly.  Mana buzzed around his body and poured out through the anchor. His arm was steady.

               _He could do this!_ The Breach flickering between green and white... he was almost...

               Roycen thrust his arm with all his remaining strength, blasting mana into the anchor. The Breach sounded as if it were screaming, many clapped hands over their ears. After what felt like an age, the Breach began to sizzle before bursting out of existence.

               Cries of elation and disbelief broke out around him. Roycen felt the rumble of Dorian’s ecstatic laughter as they watched the final threads of the breach swirl into nothingness. A curtain of natural darkness swept across the sky. He watched the simple beauty of the emerging stars. Exhausted, Roycen leaned into Dorian, finding peace in the heavy heartbeat at his ear.

The Breach was gone. They were alive! Roycen thanked the Maker with every slow, aching breath.

 

 


	14. The Stars are Spinning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good alcohol had been saved for this occasion. Who'd have thought?

**The Stars are Spinning**

 

Somehow in the joyous confusion Roycen had lost everyone except for Cassandra and Cullen. The warriors pushed back the encroaching crowd until Roycen could see a good few meters in every direction. Solas and Dorian were nowhere to be seen. He thought he could hear someone yelling ‘Friggin’!’ repeatedly, but could see no flash of Sera’s distinctive yellow leggings or scarlet shirt. Varric was absent too, but he could be anywhere among the sea of chests.

               At first the numbness of relief masked Roycen’s lingering aches. However, when Cullen presented him with a russet Ferelden courser, he sincerely doubted his ability to sit a horse with any grace, let alone stay mounted all the way back into Haven.

               He told Cullen to make use of his mount for their wounded and proceeded to walk stiffly. Each step felt heavier than the last and the cold was biting without the press of warm bodies around him. Roycen doubted he could keep up even this sluggish pace for long. Whatever he was- Herald of Andraste, or just a man in the wrong place at the wrong time- the tapestry of aches in his limbs proved that he was still human at least.  

               As Cassandra rallied their rowdy procession into shape, Roycen encountered his friends once more. Sera was babbling inanely, Varric scribbling furiously onto his jot pad and Blackwall surprised Roycen by hefting him squarely onto his shoulders. The Warden’s thick arms locked around Roycen’s calves to prevent him from swaying too much. The nearest soldiers broke into a tumult of cheering which rippled and rebounded like a drop of water in a bucket. The Warden himself broke into a bellowing laughter which rumbled through Roycen’s body. He used his heightened position to try and locate Solas and Dorian. But he was unsuccessful.

               Where in Maker’s name had they gone? He remembered that Dorian had been trembling when the Breach was finally broken and they were locked in a fast embrace. He thought the tremors to be a sign of adrenaline, but perhaps it was something more sinister.

               Perhaps Solas was tending to him in private? Roycen experienced a tight feeling in his gut at the thought.

               Once within sight of Haven’s gates, Blackwall ducked down so Roycen could dismount. Bearing his weight once more was agony. So much so that he selfishly considered requesting that Blackwall carry him to his quarters. There he could flop onto his mattress fully clothed, face sinking into the cool press of a pillow.

               However, seeing the people of Haven choking the narrow gaps between the ramshackle buildings ripped his own wants to tatters. He could not deny all those who had kept faith in him, especially as Roycen had kept so little faith in himself.

               Roycen’s pain was watered down by the swell of awe and euphoria in the sea of breathless faces around him. Some of the onlookers tried to touch him, but Blackwall, Cullen and Cassandra kept them at bay. Roycen told his warriors that he didn’t mind. Let them. At first only a few tentative hands reached him. Soon, his arms were being pawed at without abandon. Fingers clenched almost possessively into his skin and he would have fresh bruises in the morning. Seeing things were getting out of control, the three warriors flanked Roycen in a close formation the rest of the way to the Chantry.

               The main hall had blissfully been kept free of everyone who was not part of the Inquisition’s inner circle. Varric was gleefully collecting an enormous sum of coin from the Iron Bull and Sera was lamenting over a rip in her gaudy leggings. Roycen trained his eyes on the door to the war room, hoping that his missing companions were inside.

               He was halfway to the door when the voice he was hoping to hear sounded at his shoulder.

               “Is it my turn to paw at you now? I hear everyone gets a turn.”

               Dorian’s stroked playfully along Roycen’s arm, the touch lingering on his shoulder. Roycen’s face was awash with relief, as he turned to face the Tevinter. Of course his hair would be immaculate and he had somehow found the chance to change his robes. Dorian’s face looked a shade paler than usual but otherwise well. Roycen was pleased to see a crinkle at the edges of his eyes. It marked the difference between the Tevinter’s true smile and those stuck on for show.

               “How did you know about what happened outside?” Roycen asked. Had he somehow missed Dorian in the crowd?

               “The giddy teen who burst in shouting ‘I touched him! I actually touched him!’ before passing out provided us with a clue.” Dorian answered.

               “Great, they’re passing out now. What happened to you anyway?”Roycen demanded.

               “Why, my marvellous plan worked!” beamed Dorian. “You could be more grateful, you know.”

               “I along with all of Thedas is very grateful,” Roycen assured him. “But you disappeared with Solas straight after...” Roycen trailed off, not knowing how best to word his concerns.

               “Anyone would think you were jealous,” Dorian teased.

               “Worried, more like.” Roycen countered.

               Dorian let out a burst of high pitched laughter. “You worried for me? Now, I am not sure whether to be flattered or offended.”

               “Neither.” Roycen sighed frustratedly. Why did conversations with Dorian never go the way he envisioned? Not that he thought much about conversations he might have with the mage...

               “Well, you need not have worried. Solas’ stock of potions is as magnificent as his dress sense is dreadful. Seriously, the elf has something for everything. Stopping another mage from accessing mana, stealing another mage’s mana, that is all relatively simple. But storing another’s mana, returning it in the raw form... I will admit the experience quite drained me. When Solas saw my lyrium potions were having little effect, he got me back here to find something more potent. Speaking of which-” he withdrew a vial from his robes “-Solas said you could use this.”

               Roycen took the contents of the vial in one and immediately felt the better for it. He made a note to thank Solas for his ingenuity and maybe get the recipe for the potion that was leeching the pain from his limbs.

               “You know, I’ve been thinking.” Dorian said, his voice was a touch lower than before.

               “Oh yeah?” Roycen stretched as he asked, pain free at last.

               Dorian’s lips found their way to shell of Roycen’s ear as the older mage pretended to fish some bit of grit from Roycen’s hair. Dorian’s honeyed whisper made Roycen’s breath hitch in his throat. “With this Breach business out of the way, you could afford yourself a _distraction_ , Roycen Trevelyan.”

               Dorian’s warm breath left his ear in the same moment that the fingers left his hair. Dorian had retrieved nothing from Roycen’s hair but pretended to flick something to the floor for appearance’s sake. The Tevinter continued in his usual voice. “It’s something to consider. _I know I have._ ”

               The blasted mage left Roycen without waiting for his reply. Not that the young mage felt he was capable of a coherent sentence, let alone something appropriate. He did not need a looking glass to know that his face was reddening. Maker...

 

* * *

 

               In Dorian’s view, there was no better accompaniment to success than further success. Dorian had decided not to tell Roycen about his intention to act as a conduit for the young mage’s mana only partly because it was more difficult if the mage was expecting the intrusion. No, Dorian had also had grave doubts about his ability to pull the trick off, what with the anchor’s unique disarming effect on more typical magic. Indeed, Dorian had fought through intense nausea to keep connected. The sense of wrongness at being so intimate with the man’s anchor had shaken him to the core.

               Yet performing a pivotal piece of magic was the least of his successes tonight.

               Roycen was well and truly charmed. It was surely now only a matter of time.

               As Dorian walked the length of the Chantry, he had expected to find the mage of the hour supping on the spoils of victory, enjoying himself. It was not until Dorian saw the flood of relief on the young man’s face when the Tevinter realised. His absence had prevented Roycen from beginning his celebrations; Roycen had missed Dorian, worried for him. Unnecessarily, of course. But even so.

               In truth, Dorian was taking a great risk in flirting so shamelessly. But there is nothing like a near-death experience to put perspective in a man. Yes, the Breach was done, but Dorian expected that the Inquisition’s work was just beginning. If there was to be a lull before the next noble enterprise, then now was the best time to build upon the gritty foundations of their relationship, or else the memories of what could have been would soon be pouring through his fingers. If Dorian did not act now, Roycen would become unreachable, blinkered by some honourable calling.

               “With this Breach business out of the way, you could afford yourself a _distraction_ , Roycen Trevelyan.” Dorian had said. “It’s something to consider. I know I have.”

               Leaving the young man after that had been difficult, but necessary. As much as Dorian desired the intimacy, it was time for Roycen to come to him.

               Dorian had no doubt that he would.

 

* * *

 

                Solas had just the potion to get Roycen was feeling almost his usual self, and after a while Solas produced another potion, different to the first. Sera looked to recognise the concoction and giggled that it could wake a giant sloth. Roycen looked quizzically at Sera. He had never heard of such a beast.

               Roycen necked the potion anyway. He had not realised how tired he had been until the potion started to take effect. He wanted nothing more than to get out into the crisp night air and celebrate. Most of his companions were already outside doing just that.

               The dancing was in full swing by the time Roycen, Sera Solas and Cassandra found their space on the cobbles. Soldiers cheered and stamped their boots in the streets as refugees whirled their loved ones around in a dizzying dance that brought memories of festival days back home. Children thronged rooftops or ran underfoot with arms wide and the Bull’s Chargers were drunkenly belting out a song in honour of the night. They sang so loudly that Roycen could hear the words above the medley:

 

Breach were a BUGGER, we won’ lie

snottin’ demons from the sky!  

Andraste’s tits! Weren’t we in luck,

all o’ Thedas ‘gawn to fuck:

TREVELYAN! Set free our sun!

Now fill that man with ALE AND RUM!

 

               Roycen took the Charger’s suggestion. He wondered vaguely where in Thedas all this good ale had came from as he drank deeply from the second cup.

               The combination of Solas’ energising potions and the alcohol freed Roycen of his inhibitions. He was soon dancing with Sera, who neglected the steps for grabbing Roycen’s forearms and spinning as fast as she could. Other pairs had little choice but to break apart and get out their way.

               When Roycen and Sera broke apart, both were estatic with laughter. Roycen span slowly with outstretched arms. When he looked up, the stars were spinning too.

               He was brought back to Thedas by the thump of landing into someone.

               “Sorry!” he cried, not realising it was Dorian who he had bumped into, and carrying on spinning.

               “No you’re not,” the older mage chuckled, pressing a brimming cup of something into his hands. The drink was delicious, hitting Roycen’s sweet tooth in a way ale never could.

               “It’s honey mead!” Dorian raised his voice to be heard. Roycen tried to say thanks, but only hiccupped instead.

               Standing still had the effect of clearing Roycen’s head a little. This was not for the good.

               A notion as silly as it was unyielding lodged itself in the forefront of his mind. He wanted to dance. With Dorian. He wanted to lace his fingers in Dorian’s warm ones and dance the steps, or perhaps just spin if Dorian was as clueless as Sera (he somehow doubted it).

               He wanted to feel Dorian’s weight against his arms and the beat of his chest when the dance brought them close. He wanted a crinkle in the corner of Dorian’s eyes. He wanted to be the cause.

               The words were on Roycen’s lips when a watch tower bell sounded. Then another. _And another._

               No sound could have been more sobering.

 


	15. Grasp of Oblivion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like an archdemon and a darkspawn magister to sober the party atmosphere.

**Grasp of Oblivion** _  
_

It was for times like these that Cullen always remained fully armoured. It was one of the reasons he admired Cassandra, who was jogging beside him, clad in her own greaves and breastplate. Like him, the Seeker never let her guard down.

                Cassandra looked at him questioningly as they reached the lower part of Haven. All four bells sounding could only mean that a threat approaches. But who, and why now with the Breach finally sealed? With no plausible answer, Cullen’s mind was clouded with possibilities each more disturbing than the next. He methodically shot down each theory with a sharp shot of logic. The Orlesians had their own civil unrest to deal with and would start no wars. The Chantry did not have the strength. Tevinter was too far to have acted so quickly. The Qunari? Cullen shook himself of the ridiculous idea.

                Cassandra barked a question which Cullen didn’t catch at first. She was looking up towards the eastern watchtower. “I’ll take west,” Cullen confirmed, understanding. “We assess the threat then ready our plan of action.”

                Cullen heaved himself up a narrow ladder to reach the parapet of the western watchtower. His steel boot splashed in a puddle of ale, the keg forgotten on its side in the confusion. A single soldier remained where two should have been on duty. The lone watchman stared out over the crenulations, a brass far-eye rammed to his face.

                “Soldier, report!” Cullen instructed. His voice boomed over the din of the bells, yet the watchman did not move or speak. He did not seem to notice his commander’s presence at all until Cullen placed a gauntleted hand on the subordinate’s shoulder. This close to the edge, Cullen was hit with the full force of wind off the Frostbacks, his lion mane mantle shook viciously in the gust. The commander was unaffected by the cold, but the same could not be said for the shivering watchman at his side, who finally removed the brass cylinder from his face. Cullen noticed a ringed bruise where the instrument had been pressed against the soldier’s skin.

                “Report!” Cullen repeated to the ashen faced man, who opened and closed his mouth desperately, gulping the cold air like a fish out of water. Cullen sighed with frustration, giving the watchman up for a lost cause and looking out towards the Frostfangs to assess what he could of the danger. From this distance, all he could make out of the approaching force were shivering pinpricks of orange light at the top of the mountain, like a swarm of angry fireflies.

                From a tactical point of view, the enemy’s attack was perfect. An all-out assault would cripple Haven. Their victory would be all the swifter tonight, with the celebrations in full swing. Cullen dreaded to think what percentage of their own soldiers would be too drunk to swing a sword tonight.

                Fuck. Since when had he been so blind? He should have known better than to allow this weakness in Haven’s defence. Not that the sprawling migrant town and makeshift barracks were easily defendable in the first place.

                Losing patience, Cullen took the far-eye from the incapacitated soldier’s slack, shaking fingers and placed it to his eye. The glass was cloudy and speckled, but allowed him to make out figures racing down the mountain at an impossible speed. Fully armoured bodies should not be moving at such speed. Even with the far-eye, all Cullen could make out for certain was that they were not mages. What looked to be five hundred warriors were streaming down towards them, with more bobbing torches appearing over the summit every time Cullen glanced back up.

                “Templars.” Cullen heard at his left. The recruit had finally found the will to speak it seemed, but the soldier was not making sense. How could the army pouring down the mountain be a Templar host? True, the talks with the Chantry at Val Royeaux had been disastrous, but he could see no banners. As a rule, the Chantry and their Templar force were not ones for stealth and anonymity. Cullen dropped the brass cylinder, his hands now clammy.

                He had to take action, but Haven was unprepared, their army a sodden mess.

                The bells suddenly ceased ringing. The only ones unaware of the sudden crises now would be those too incapacitated by alcohol to be of any help anyway.

                Cullen strode to the Southern edge of the tower to see Haven’s soldiers readying themselves for the unknown danger. It was a sorry sight. Armed with forged weapons and farming tools, wearing a mismatch of armour, swaying warriors, rough-looking rogues and refugees red-faced with liquid bravery assembled in loose, lost-looking groups, waiting anxiously for direction. Clusters of mages peppered the scene. They looked more prepared than the others, with their staffs at the ready. But it was a fool’s illusion. Drunk mages were likely to be of more harm than help. Cullen needed to be down there, getting Haven’s pitiful defences in order.

                He saw that the watchman had joined him. The man was incapable of speech once more, but gestured with a trembling hand at something directly below them.

                Cullen leaned over the crenulations to see a man in a strange helmet was dashing towards the gates, accompanied - no - _pursued_ by a warrior. Cullen raised the far-eye once more, and was astonished to see what he had assumed was a man was nothing more than a scrawny boy in patched clothes, what Cullen had mistaken for a helmet was in fact a floppy, wide brimmed hat. Cullen’s heart leaped into his throat as a four times his size warrior grappled at the boy’s shoulders. What happened next was beyond belief. The boy had slid between the warrior’s legs and now clung to the foe’s neck, which was easily the width of the boy’s chest. A twin flash of daggers sliced the warrior’s chin in perfect symphony. A Pair of crimson fountains erupted at the foe’s throat as he fell into a puddle of his own blood. The boy rogue hopped from the still frame unscathed before continuing in his scurry to Haven’s gate.

                Cullen was determined to be there when the boy arrived. The far eye clattered to the floor, Cullen slid down the stairs and raced to the gate, ignoring the flurry of shouts around him.

                Cassandra was there at the gate, explaining what she could of the situation to Josephine.

                “Under what banner?” Josephine called as she spotted Cullen. He saw that Josephine had her clipboard and pen at the ready, as if a few well chosen words could sway the battle.

                “None.” Cullen admitted.

                “None!?” The ambassador was incredulous. He heard her quill snap which only added to the Antivan’s distress.

                A pounding of small fists on the oak gate got Cullen’s attention. The boy had made it.

                “I can’t come in unless you open! I’m Cole.”

                “We are under attack” Cassandra growled. “State your purpose!”

                “I came here. To help. People are coming to hurt you.”

                “What is this, what’s going on?” Cassandra asked, looking to Cullen who had placed a hand on the rough wood of the gate.

                “It’s OK.” Cullen assured. Of course, everything was far from OK, but the boy was not an enemy. He may have information on their foe. “Let him in!”

                Cullen signalled for two startled soldiers to winch open the gate.

                The boy, Cole, was even scrawnier up close, his face shadowed by the enormous hat.

                “The Templars come to kill you. They know who you are.” Cole said, looking down at his thin boots.

                Cullen squared up to the boy. “Is this the order’s response to our talk with the mages? Attacking blindly?”

                “The red Templars work for the Elder one. You took his mages. He knows your face.” Cole pointed a pale finger at the Herald, who looked thoroughly drunk.

                As disastrous as the situation was, now he knew the enemy there could be no delay. “We must control the battle.” He announced. “Mages, you have sanction to engage! Man the watchtowers. Halt their progress if you can! Soldiers, with me to the trebuchets! Cassandra, position the reserves!”

 

* * *

 

                Roycen drank the syrupy liquid Solas had thrust before his lips. Feeling flooded into his body as the effects of alcohol wore off. He thanked the elf, making way for the watchtowers to join the mages, when he felt a cold, firm grip on his arm.

                “I would suggest refuge in the Chantry,” Solas said cooly.

                Roycen tugged his arm free. “I’m not just going to sit by and watch!”

                “You are our Herald—”

                A gut-wrenching roar from the sky put a stop to whatever complex argument Solas was about to make.

                “Maker save us,” Blackwall spoke in a low voice. A cacophony of cries and prayers erupted as a shadow blocked out the light of the mother moon, Luna. The daughter moon Satina was not bright enough to define the shape of the beast above. But there was no mistaking. The whip and thrum of leathern wings confirmed everyone’s worst fears. A high dragon.

                The neck of the winged shadow glowed bright for a moment, before a lance of scarlet fire scorched down. A ramshackle house was instantly ignited, the force of the impact blowing flaming splinters in every direction to start other small fires.

                Chaos ensued as soldiers and refugees alike dropped their weapons in their haste to retreat to the upper levels of Haven. Cullen stood on a wooden cart, his broadsword aloft, roaring instructions to make for the Chantry.

                Roycen was vaguely aware of Solas’ fingers on his arm once more. But there was no way in Maker’s name he was going to the Chantry with the mages still up the watchtowers. The wooden ladders meant the evacuation happened one at a time. All the while his fellow mages were painfully exposed. Roycen spotted with a lurch in his stomach that Dorian was one of the few still casting. He shirked from Solas’ grip, flashing the bald elf a look as sharp as his daggers and made for Dorian’s watchtower. Not that Roycen had a plan.

                The sounds of spells fizzing and hissing from Dorian’s watchtower was swallowed up as the dragon roared. _That was much closer!_ Fleeing mages looked at Roycen like he was insane as he dodged past them in the other direction. When he reached the ladder, a female mage with a tangle of brown hair shook her head with distress, pointing with frustration above her. “Herald! He won’t come down. Got a death wish he has!”

                “He will have when I’m through with him,” Roycen promised. He could just hear Dorian cursing furiously in Tevene under the cackle of whatever magic he was producing.

                The woman took Roycen by the arms and looked imploringly into his eyes. “They’ll break through any moment. It’s not safe.”

                “Get to the Chantry,” Roycen commanded, hurrying up the ladder.

                The bitter wind caught on Roycen’s cloak, the flapping of the heavy cloth should have announced his presence, but Dorian was intensely focused on casting. The Tevinter’s arms were encased with ice up to the elbows, his staff shimmered with frost, spinning what Roycen could only describe as icy webs which smothered groups of the warriors below. It was the first time that Roycen had seen the enemy. Red Templars, the boy Cole had called them. That did nothing to prepare him for seeing the armoured monstrosities before him. They resembled the golems from Marcher night tales more than men. Shards of red crystal jutted grotesquely from skin and armour. Despite Dorian’s efforts a dozen of the monstrosities had made it to Haven’s gate.

                The Tevinter twisted his staff, taking aim at the Templars bashing on the gate. Roycen wondered if Dorian would have stayed up here indefinitely.

                “Enough!” Roycen roared, standing steadfast behind Dorian, who span around as if expecting an enemy. The icy mana forming at the tip of Dorian’s staff released into a cold torrent, soaking Roycen’s boots.

                “ _Venhedis_ , Trevelyan!” the older mage barked, a look of utter vexation drawn across his lips. “I may make this look easy, but I assure you it is not!”

                He didn’t have time for this stubbornness. Roycen could be just as stubborn when it mattered. And with a high dragon circling overhead it mattered. Now.

                “You’re coming with me, Dorian!” Roycen commanded.

                “And then who will keep these brutes away?” Dorian challenged, charging up another ice spell. “I didn’t send for my chests to allow my possessions to be trampled on!”

                The fact that Dorian was thinking of his possessions of a time like this left Roycen speechless. Luckily, back-up arrived in the form of a pumped Qunari.

                “Bull!” Roycen called the moment he spotted the horns appearing through the trap door.

                “Get your brute hands off of me!” Dorian demanded as he was picked up under one arm. Bull chortled as Dorian struggled pointlessly against the crushing grip. With a nod from Roycen, the Qunari released Dorian at the foot of the watchtower, just as the gate imploded behind them.

 

* * *

 

 

                Cassandra had dotted the reserve squads strategically around Haven, but the planning fell to tatters the moment the red Templars stormed the gate. Roycen, Bull and Dorian ran with the rest of them, taking down enemies in their path. The dragon swooped low overhead, raining scarlet globs which incinerated anything it touched.

               “That’s not dragon fire,” barked a gruff voice nearby. _Blackwall._

                “Not a dragon? Then...” Rocyen breathed between strides. He could only think of one other option.

               “Archdemon!” Blackwall growled, confirming his worst fears.

                “Blackwall, can you kill it?” Roycen asked, ducking to avoid the swing of a Templar longsword.

                “Not without other Wardens!” Blackwall caught a Templar’s rectangular shield in his gauntlet, using all his weight to force the enemy off his feet. The Iron Bull ended the Templar with a crushing stamp to the neck. The wet snapping of bone and tendons marked a small reprieve from the fighting.

                Roycen caught a flash of crimson fur at his left and came to a stop before Commander Cullen.

                “Cullen, what’s the plan?” Roycen prayed to the Maker he had a plan.

                “At this point we can only make them work for it.” Cullen looked down as he said the damning words. He looked as if he’d had all the air punched out of him. Blackwall was brooding in silence and Dorian was bent over double, harbouring a stitch.

                “As apparently hopeless as our situation is, I for one would still prefer not to die by fire. It would be a cruel irony.” Dorian complained.

                All five were alert to someone approaching at speed. The Iron Bull had raised his axe to shoulder height, but it was Cassandra who rounded the corner. Cullen snapped out of his despondency as if breaking out of a spell. The Seeker led the group to the relative safety of a standing building, although no one was under the illusion that the house could not be blown apart at any moment.

                The group shared what information they could. Roycen was horrified to learn of the Elder One, who had been responsible for the horrors in the time warp. He kicked himself for not making the connection sooner. The red rocks joined to the Templars was red lyrium, just like in the parallel future.

                Cassandra whispered that the Elder One had called for him, for the anchor. His heart sank. Could tonight’s bloodshed had been avoided if he had heard the Elder One? Given himself up? Maybe after all this, the Maker’s plan for him was one of sacrifice.

                Roycen’s mind worked through possibilities, but he had no experience of battles, let alone planning one. Thinking through the options was like trying to put together a puzzle with half the pieces missing and no idea of the final picture. An image of Dorian conjuring webs of ice to stall the Templars’ progress floated through his mind.

                “We can’t kill the archdemon, right Blackwall?”

                The warrior nodded solemnly.

                 “But we can decimate this army.” Roycen stated.

                 That caught Cullen’s attention. “We don’t have the resources.”

                 “Do we have a working trebuchet?”

                 “We do,” Cassandra and Cullen said together. The commander blushed, coughing into his fist.

                 “Herald, you have a plan?” Cassandra asked hopefully.

                 “Turn the trebuchet. Bury them in ice while I distract the Elder One.” Roycen said, wringing his hands. It was a terrible idea, but all he had.

                 “You want to give yourself over to that monster?” demanded Cassandra.

                 Roycen surprised himself with the speed with which he battled his companions’ counter arguments. If this Elder One wanted Roycen, wanted his anchor, he was going to have it one way or the other. This way, lives could be spared. Trying for an avalanche was their best chance of hitting the red Templars hard enough to make a difference. Their mages were too vulnerable to the archdemon’s fire, as were the rogue archers. Their warriors were insufficient in number to the Red Templars, not to mention poorly equipped and _drunk_.

                “An avalanche would bury Haven!” Cullen declared. “Even if we assembled in the Chantry, we may not be able to dig a way out.”

                “No. The people will run and be safe.” Cole said.

                Everyone looked up in alarm at the boy’s soft voice.

_Where had Cole appeared from?_

                “They would be buried alive.” insisted Cassandra.

                “No, Chancellor Roderick will tell you. Find him. I will find the others and tell them too.”

                No one having a better plan, they made haste for the Chantry.

 

* * *

 

                With all the inner circle assembled, the plan was set. The refugees would escape through the tunnel while the Elder One was distracted. And there could be only one distraction.

                “Herald, what of your escape?” Cullen asked.

                Roycen said nothing. He had no answer.

                “You are giving up.” Dorian said, his grey eyes accusing.

                It was more than Roycen could stand. “I am doing my duty!” Roycen snapped, hoping he sounded braver than he felt. “Blackwall, Cullen. Varric. Man the trebuchet for the avalanche. I will give you as much time as I can, but when that beast takes to the sky again, _make for the tunnel_. It is all I ask. _”_ Sera wrinkled her face in disgust and looked as if she might try and charge, but Varric placed a stout grip on her belt.

               “Easy there, Buttercup. There’s no stopping Stretch when he gets that look on his face.” Roycen maintained his resolute frown. If he broke now, he doubted he would regain the courage to follow through with the plan.

                Dorian had been halfway across the room, but turned on his heel and stalked towards Roycen. The young mage tried to swallow the painful knot in his throat. However, Dorian was the semblance of calm as he tilted Roycen’s chin and sighed. “Come back safe. That is all I ask.” Roycen’s anxiety had passed enough to look properly at Dorian when the Tevinter added in a sharp whisper, “If you don’t, remember I am familiar with the arts of Necromancy. You die out there, I promise to bring you back and kill you all over again.”

               “Sera, Cassandra, _Dorian_. Get the people to safety.” he said through gritted teeth.

               He expected to have to plead with them, but to his astonishment his companions each showed their acceptance.


	16. Sundered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roycen's escape from Haven does not go smoothly.

**Sundered**

Andraste’s gift. Following the Maker’s path. It was all a dream.

                Roycen’s world was reduced to a flurry of snowflakes and ash, the smothered remains of Haven at his back. Cullen had been successful. Roycen had watched the trebuchet’s load soar across the sky like a meteor to strike a high point on the mountain. There was no escaping the resulting avalanche. It buried the burnt bones of Haven’s dead and Corypheus’s army alike. Corypheus himself had sneered at roaring wave of snow approaching, before fleeing in a puff of magic like a vampire in a night-tale. Half-numb from his encounter with the darkspawn magister, Roycen had made for narrow path carved into the Frostbacks. He was sheltered from the worst of the avalanche, yet there was nothing to do but wait in a crook of rock until the air settled and there was no risk of a secondary fall.

                Roycen looked resolutely up the path with a heavy heart. There was no knowing how many loyal friends were buried behind him. It was sickening to think that they and the corrupted Templars shared the same icy tomb. Just as it was agonising to think that mere hours ago all of Haven had been rejoicing in their victory against the Breach. His only consolation was that the surviving fighters, refugees and his _friends_ were somewhere ahead. Dejected and defeated, but _safe_.

                Roycen numbly placed one foot in front of the other. His sole reason for doing so was that he owed this to the others. Not because they needed him, but because they needed to know. Corypheus was a monster, but he had finally revealed the truth clear of what happened that night at the Temple of Sacred Ashes: The anchor was not Andraste’s gift, but Corypheus’s cruel mistake.

                Corypheus proved the truth of his claim by making the anchor burn, where no other magic had been able to affect it. Only the approaching avalanche had stopped Corypheus from killing Roycen outright.

                He needed to tell the others. Likely, the Inquisition would disband knowing that not only was Roycen not chosen for this task, but that the anchor itself was a result of corruption. There was no divine purpose to their cause.

                Roycen’s progress up the narrow mountain path became a near impossible slog as the snow drifts pushed half way to his knees. His robe was already stiff to the waist with ice and his knarlwood staff was lost. He missed the feel of leather under his palm, softened to the shape of his grip. And of course it limited Roycen’s magic greatly. He tried to send warm breaths of mana long his limbs, but it was not worth the effort when the bitter cold reclaimed him each time the magic waned. Which became ever more frequent as the footing got worse.

                A vixen screamed at Roycen’s right, the sound thick through the fur of her single, mewling pup. She stood on the rocky ledge with one paw raised, before slinking beyond sight.

               When the path got steeper still, he wished for his lost staff for support more than for warmth. Either the snow had increased to a blizzard, or the cold wind was blurring Roycen’s vision until there was only the bitter swirl of snow. Roycen’s breaths came sharper. Iced daggers grazed his lungs. He wanted nothing more than to sink into snow and sleep.

               Half-crawling through the drifts, the heel of Roycen’s hand crunched through something that was not snow. White crusted russet fur. Its mother was nowhere in sight. No memory of warm blood lingered in the fox cub’s body, already stiff. The young mage struggled to regain control of his arms. The snow beckoned him life a familiar friend.

_Why keep struggling? It is soft down here... The wind doesn’t bite..._

There was a reason to get up. Roycen was sure of it. his thoughts escaped like sheets of parchment lost to a gust. Gone before he could comprehend the words. Roycen gave himself to the snow. Weightless, unfeeling, _wonderful_. Roycen found comfort in a veil of false hope. Warmth, safety, his friends. They would all be true when he woke up...

                The wind whispered warm thoughts and the snow pressed around him like strong arms, enveloping his body in a crushing embrace. His chest ached but it didn’t matter. Roycen’s final thought was of the music he and Dorian’s laughter had made that day after fighting the rift, laying in the grass. Roycen turned his head to find Dorian’s crinkle-eyed smile, but there was only snow.

 

* * *

           

   Dorian had never been so cold, yet for once he couldn’t feel the bite on his skin. There was room for no other sensation but dread. Unforgiving shards of it dug inside his chest each time he looked upon a mound of snow that was large enough to conceal a person.

_Roycen._

All mages capable of walking were searching, but none with more dedication than he. Dorian glanced up with every other agonising breath, longing to see green sparks which would signal success. But yet again, there were only the snow-swollen clouds.

                Too numb to hope yet too stubborn to grieve, Dorian looked back down to the mound of snow before him, toeing forward into the fresh fall. The snow crumbed apart around his boots. There was no relief, only dogged determination.Dorian would not rest until he was found. Solas would be calling back the mages soon, but he would march all the way back to Haven if it came to that.

                Dorian kept up a manic pace until he caught his boot on a buried rock, twisting an ankle. He fell ungainly onto his face into the snow. White, shallow puffs of breath came thin, filling his lungs with a cold so intense it felt like _burning_. However, nothing so _droll_ as being unable to breathe could deter Dorian from his search. If there was the minute chance that Roycen was alive– _no_. It was too painful to hope.

                It took every fibre in his body to rise to his knees, clenching his staff with both trembling hands. He knew that seeping warm threads of mana into his numb limbs would only drain him further. He needed his physical strength now more than ever. The mage pulled himself stiffly the rest of the way to his feet, palming his robes more from habit than with the expectation of dislodging the crusts of dirty ice. A glance at the bleak sky delivered another jolt of despair.

                When Dorian reached the edge of the mountain, the wind-whipped snow thrust what little breath he had left from his chest. If anything, the snowfall was getting heavier. An owl screeched somewhere close by, obscured by the blizzard. It was with a heavy heart that Dorian realised he could no longer make out a path ahead. In a desperate act, the mage pooled mana into his staff, fashioning the magic he wanted. Each flake hissed as the melting spell struck, granting a clear view 20ft in every direction. Dorian focused on the cracked stone way marker. A sheltered path hugging the mountainside. Perhaps the one Roycen was meant to use.

                A high screech sounded above him. Dorian could now see the white owl clinging to a rocky overhang above the path. It surveyed him with calm yellow eyes before swooping silently, gliding close to the snow. The owl disappeared for a moment only to rise with something red in its talons. Dorian found himself striding in that direction.

                “ _Roycen!”_ he called to the prone figure before him, but his voice barely came out.

                “ROYCEN!” he shouted. Closer now. He wasn’t answering. He wasn’t moving.

Dorian fell upon the young mage, cursing his tears that froze the moment they formed, obscuring his view. Furiously knuckling his eyes, Dorian forced himself to focus on Roycen’s condition. _Not dead_ , he prayed aloud, to any gods that might be listening.

                Roycen’s mouth was slack and his lips blue. Dorian’s clutching fingers were too numb to feel for warmth and his blood pounding too loudly to sense for the pulse. Only by pressing tightly against Roycen’s chest did Dorian finally feel the shallow breaths.

                _Alive._

For a long moment, Dorian clutched selfishly to this truth. Nothing else mattered.

                In a moment of nauseating realisation he cursed himself for a fool. The man was almost dead! His fate was far from decided! Dorian pried himself away from Roycen only long enough to send a stream of emerald sparks to the sky. He prayed that Solas would see the signal, but Roycen needed help _now_.

                Dorian filled his palms with warm mana and straddled the young mage’s chest, placing hot hands on Roycen’s collarbone, finding passage down to the chest. He rippled warmth through the chilled body beneath him, focusing intently on spreading the magic evenly. Dorian kept his knees tight around Roycen’s hips, fuelling himself with the hope each time he felt the body beneath him rise and fall with shallow breaths.

                There was no easy way of assessing Roycen’s condition further. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed Solas. Dorian was no healer, but he did have more dubious options. He could at least establish whether Roycen was in the Fade, whether he could be roused.

                Dorian reached out to Roycen with a burst of psychic intrusion. There was no use being gentle. He needed to get past the mental defences. Dorian was alarmed to find no resistance from the young mage. Why would that be? Unless...?

_Venhedis._

               Roycen was in the Fade, and while joined Dorian could glimpse a narrow view of Roycen in what appeared to be a sulphurous marshland. The young mage was thigh deep in sucking mud, flailing desperately and growling like a snared animal. All the while sinking steadily into the ooze.

                Dorian mentally pulled away, but held Roycen’s unconscious body tight. The Tevinter gulped back the dread which threatened to overwhelm him. His worst fears were. Roycen was not only in the Fade, but approaching death. _Maleficia Conlidam._ He was walking the mage’s parting. If Roycen slipped beneath the mud, there would be no waking him.

                Studying as a necromancer so often meant studying the moments leading to death. A recent discovery was that for a mage, the minutes before death were spent in the Fade: _Maleficia Conlidam._ The mage’s parting. It was a separation between soul and body which takes place in the Fade. The journey was said to be unique for every mage, but the end point was always the same. Even if a mage appeared physically dead or was moments from dying, they were not lost completely until the mage’s parting was completed.

                If Roycen did not receive medical attention now... _No._ There must be a way! Time manipulation was of no use in the Fade. He was not a dreamer. He could not manipulate Roycen’s experience, nor could he pull him out.

                The green signal blazed in the sky, but there was no knowing how long until help arrived. Roycen needed a healer _now_. He needed to wake, to break the sequence of events taking place in the Fade. But Roycen didn’t _have_ a healer. He had Dorian. And as a necromancer there was one way, as a last resort for a mage who was walking the Fade for the final time... the _Breath of Stasis_.

                He tried to forget the thought as soon as it occurred, but it was all for nought. He had never practiced the magic which had just now occurred to him, but he had seen it bring someone back from the brink. He had seen the Archon’s wife poisoned. She should have been dead in a minute, were it not for one of her guests administering the Breath of Stasis prolonging the death long enough for an antidote to take effect.

                He tentatively sought a mental connection with Roycen once more. The Tevinter was terrified to see that Roycen was chest deep in the mud and was barely fighting, as if resigned to his fate. _Too fast._

Dorian had made his decision. He had practiced on himself plenty enough to ‘safely’ bring himself to a point near to death, but there could only be two outcomes of the Breath of Stasis. They would both live... or they would both die. When Dorian was as weak as he dared, he reached mentally for Roycen again, moments before slipping into unconsciousness.

 

 


	17. Breath of Stasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a link to the prologue.

**Breath of Stasis**

  
      A muggy, midsummer’s night and Dorian prided himself on his choice of silk: silvery lilac which shimmered splendidly under magelight. The third-year apprentice was enjoying himself for once. Ostentatious finery had lost its appeal long ago, but this was Archon Radonis’s succession ball and the young apprentice had not been disappointed. The dozens of candelabras suspended over the feast table lent the scene an intimate feel. The hall was otherwise free from the show of wealth which so often cluttered a host’s reception. One memorable event had required guests duck under fruiting trees brought in from the courtyard and skirt a fountain filled with wine, only to eat elbow to elbow with larger-than-life statues of their host’s ancestors.

  
       The new Archon had made some personal touches, namely the many cats prowling the marble. Dorian had never realised there were so many different types. Long haired varieties rubbed their smoky silver bodies against the the silk and velveteen of the Magisters’ robes. Others seeked closer attention, staring up at bejewelled women with wide eyes. The luckiest purred contentedly under the caresses of their gloved fingers.

  
       Dorian liked the tall eared sand cats best. They chased each other around the hall, occasionally startling the guests as they scampered between boots and skirts.  
Halward Pavus was taking as much interest in his son as usual, so Dorian soon found his way into the fragrant garden with his friend Felix. Outside, a group of other Magisters’ sons were huddled conspiratorially in a corner. Strange, high pitched sounds were coming from the area. It turned out Jasome had caught a bad-tempered ginger cat. If Dorian had a reputation for being brilliant in the Circle, then Jasome had a reputation for being a bully. The cat hissed and writhed desperately in the Jasome’s fingers. He had removed his gloves to get a better grip. A plump boy clutched Jasome’s gloves like his personal _servus_.

  
       “I wouldn’t. Thinks he’s a lion, that one!” his friend Felix warned, as if the ginger cat’s low hissing was not warning enough.

  
       “Spoiled kitten, more like.” Jasome retorted, before tilting his head at the boy holding his gloves. “Fatter than you, Cane.” The glove holder smirked, taking the snide as if it were a compliment. Jasome twisted the cat onto its back to scratch at its fat belly. It mewled threateningly, more desperate than ever for escape.

  
       Felix’s eyes narrowed and Dorian had a feeling his friend might do something dense. Fortunately, an idea had just struck him, an idea too deliciously tempting to pass up. Glancing to check that his father wasn’t nearby, Dorian subtly unclasped his staff and drew for mana. Brilliant as he was, casting transformative spells simultaneously was simple. Even so, the result impressed even him. The feline fell quiet as the magic hit. Ginger fur turned sandy, darker tufts sprouted around the cat’s neck, poking through the delicate metalwork of its collar. Jasome’s grip loosened with shock as the cat grew, threatening to spill from his captor’s arms...

  
       The miniature lion took full advantage of its newfound freedom, twisting around to bite his captor’s wrist fiercely before dropping down.

  
       “Looks like Felix was right!” Dorian scoffed between laughter. The others were in hysterics, all except for Cane who looked more nervous the redder Jasome’s face became. Dorian was not concerned; the Pavus name offered certain immunity. Felix breathlessly patted Dorian on the back as they took their leave. He had worked up quite an appetite.

  
       Near the entrance to the hall, both apprentices were stopped in their tracks by the sight of now enormous cat caught painfully in the ornate fence it had tried to jump through. Felix was on his knees in an instant trying to untangle the angry ball of fur. The still-growing mane was not helping.  
“Coming down here to help or are you just going to stand there?” Felix demanded, noticing Dorian’s amusement.

  
       His friend would hardly understand that you don’t kneel in formalwear. And of course he was going to help, as entertaining as it was watching Felix’s fingers dancing to avoid tooth and claw. Dorian had just brandished his staff to reverse the magic when the sound of Jasome and his crony stomping back towards them stole their attention. Only then did Dorian and Felix notice the music from the main hall had stopped. In Tevinter, the music only stopped when things got _very interesting_.

  
       The Magisters’ sons entered the hall in a huddle. The pallor of the faces around them confirmed some disaster had befallen the Archon’s event. Not yet tall enough to see the cause of the drama, Dorian weaved his way through the crowd, losing the other apprentices in the crush.  
A woman had been pulled onto the performance platform. But not just any woman... _the Archon’s wife_!

      Archon Radonis was casting with a furious focus rarely seen. The magic was so intense that Dorian could taste the bitterness of the air, parched of magic. His guards were keeping their distance on the pretence of keeping the crowds back, but it was hardly necessary.

  
       “ _Poison_ ,” a woman hissed, her face obscured by a feathered fan. “ _The wine_ ,” a man murmured. If true, it was hardly the most original assassination attempt, Dorian thought. Yet there was no doubting that a slip of rare poison in an unsuspecting chalice was just as likely to succeed as some elaborate scheme. Indeed, a poorly thought out assassination attempt was sometimes did wonders for an otherwise dull evening. However this was completely different. Magisters which Dorian one day hoped to surpass were gaping like well dressed fish which had flopped out of the pond.

  
       For all of the Archon’s power, his wife did not stir. Even with Tevinter’s finest mages assembled, none dared interfere for fear of somehow implicating themselves in the bloody affair. Or so Dorian thought. Gasps of surprise broke out as a tall, darkly dressed man parted the crowd. Dorian recognised him by his hair - red, orange and yellow – secured in a plain black band. On anyone else, the style might have been garish. But Dorian had not known Magister Levus, the renowned inferno mage and long-absent Master of elemental magic to be without his tricolour hair. It was the only thing Levus seemed to maintain about his appearance. When Dorian had attended his first session under Levus’ instruction he was among those who initially scoffed at the Magister’s plain black robes. He had soon swallowed his disdain and was practically swooning by the end of the lesson. Drunk on the graceful, yet utterly destructive magic their teacher had demonstrated.

  
       But that was over two years ago. Levus had recently returned from Nevarra. Word around was that he would not return as Master of Elemental Magic, instead offering personal apprenticeships (in necromancy no less!) Watching Levus grasp the Archon’s arm, daring to whisper intently into his ear, Dorian’s curiosity was piqued to the point of distraction. He hardly heard what the Archon said when he stood to address the crowd.

 

* * *

  
       When the carriages finally came, Dorian pressed his father for answers on the night’s events. He even resorted to making half-sincere promises, though he needn’t have bothered. Halward’s sigh was almost imperceptible, but Dorian was well versed in spotting the smallest chinks in his father’s apathy. That small intake of breath meant that he would have more luck mining gold from the walls of Minrathous than getting any more out of Magister Halward Pavus.

  
       Dorian thought back to the moment in the hall when Levus had pulled away from Archon Radonis’ ear. The Archon had commanded in a booming voice for the guests to leave immediately. They were only happy to obey. All Dorian knew for certain was that the Archon’s wife had been saved and that Levus was responsible. Halward dismissed his son’s enquiries with his usual detachment, and soon Dorian resigned himself to recline into the plush seat of the carriage, lost in his own thoughts.

  
       Dorian was by now old enough to have infuriated several mentors. As often as not, it was Dorian who took it upon himself to approach his previous mentors, having been impressed by some sumptuous piece of magic. The promise of Pavus coin was usually enough to acquire a mage’s services for a season. However, no mentor had yet lasted a season. Witnessing their new apprentice’s fascination melt into boredom and brazen insubordination, they soon made thinly veiled excuses to his father and vanished from the estate in search of simpler employment. Yet Dorian knew that Magister Levus was made of firmer stuff. By the end of the first week in his class, he had every apprentice’s rapt attention. Dorian could not remember once being bored in that room.

       It was a perfect idea, really.

  
       “Father,” Dorian began in his most unassuming voice. “About my new mentor...”  
  


* * *

 

 

_...Dorian had made his decision. He had practiced on himself plenty enough to ‘safely’ bring himself to a point near to death, but there could only be two outcomes of the Breath of Stasis. They would both live... or they would both die._  
_When Dorian was as weak as he dared, he reached mentally for Roycen again, moments before slipping into unconsciousness..._

      Dorian was laying on something hard, cold, dry... definitely not snow, so he must be in the Fade, walking the _Maleficia Conlidam_. Roycen was somewhere nearby, sinking in mud.

  
       Dorian opened his eyes, but his vision was blurred. The destructive magic Dorian had cast still choked the flow of his blood, acting like a toxin. His senses were sluggish, but any necromancer worth their creed could bring themselves back from the brink. The trick was not to rush. It was not healing as such, more of an expelling of the destructive magic which had brought him so close to death. Eventually the Tevinter opened his pale grey eyes once more.

  
      In his still weakened state, it took a long time to orientate himself, not helped by the fact that he was seeing two conflicting images like reflections in a cracked mirror. He was barely surprised to find himself lying on a cold, somehow familiar stone table. Above, Dorian could see shards of vaulted ceiling. The bone white stone jarred against slithers of deep night sky. Levus had told him of his own experience of the Breath of Stasis, the night he saved the Archon’s wife. The invasive magic undoubtedly forestalled her death by interfering with the natural progression of _Maleficia Conlidam_ , for long enough for an antidote to take effect. All Dorian needed to do was remain here, find Roycen if he could. Wait for a healer to bring Roycen out of his unconsciousness. Then they would both wake, in theory. The other option was that Roycen succumbed, taking Dorian with him. It did not help that Levus was tight lipped when it came to details. His mentor merely stated that these final visions manifested from a wicked combination of fear and memory and that it was obvious when death was about to occur.

  
       Even seeing only fragments, Dorian knew his vision had taken him back to the _Pretorium_ , just as it was on the night his father had fooled Dorian into thinking he and Levus were being granted a boon. In reality, his father had tried to change him, to make his son forget that Levus ever existed, while moulding him into a more functional heir. Strange though, there was no imminent danger.

  
       In every direction lay grey marshland and thin slithers of the marble floor of the _Pretorium_. But Roycen was nowhere to be seen. Dorian shuffled across the marble, tapping his staff like a walking stick before him to prevent slipping into the stinking mud. He paused at a stone pillar, squinting through the murk and calling for Roycen.  
A chink of metal answered somewhere behind him. The mage whirled towards the sound, lit staff aloft, but it was too late. A long chain snaked around his ankles, calves, wound around his hip. Dorian seared the links now tightening into his waist with white-hot magic, but the smoking chain simply reformed, pressing tighter in response. The marble beneath his boots cracked.

  
       The sudden lurch of the chain should have sent him crashing down to the marble, or possibly into the foul mud. Instead, Dorian found himself prone on a stone table. A twin chain found his wrists, stretching them taut above his head, pulsing with magic against his neck.

  
       Dorian squeezed his eyes closed, leaking hot tears at the thought of Roycen sinking ever deeper into the mud. The mage clenched his fists, deciding with newfound resolve that his last thought would not be of Roycen slipping beyond sight. _No._

      Something else. _Anything else._

  
       The most recent, happy memory. Could it really have been the same evening that Dorian had watched Roycen spinning under the stars, finally unburdened. It hadn’t mattered to Dorian that he was standing on the sidelines, holding two cups of mead while Sera and Roycen danced. He would have stood there all night...

  
       “ _Enough._ ” Spoke a cold, familiar voice. The image Dorian was clutching to so tightly seeped away like cupped water. Dorian was now bound so tightly that he couldn’t turn his head. But if he could, Dorian knew that he would see Halward Pavus holding his hands over his son.

  
       It’s not real. It’s not real. Not... real... 


	18. Thawing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A warm bath of fluff to thaw out all that icy drama.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW A SERIES:
> 
> All future updates will now be in part 2. Bookmark or subscribe to the 'Wildfire' series for further posts.

**Thawing**

When Solas had finally got them back to camp, Dorian could only watch as Roycen was rushed into a prepared tent. Weak as he was, Dorian battled against the layers of heavy cloth which kept out the bitter wind. Inside, he was hit with a wave of warmth. Twin braziers burned either side of a sleeping pallet covered in furs. Solas carefully arranged the still unconscious Roycen on the pallet, pulling furs up to his chin before leaving to fetch more supplies.

                Dorian sat on a crate at Roycen’s bedside, lacing his fingers with warm magic before reaching out to stroke Roycen’s cheek. By the time Solas returned his cheeks were a healthier shade. Dorian gently pushed back the mop of golden hair from Roycen’s brows, feeling for warmth.

                Roycen’s eyelids fluttered. His mouth parted slightly. Dorian withheld a long breath, not daring to move the fingers now ghosting Roycen’s skin.

                “He moved!”

                Solas was a pale spectre in the corner of the tent. He carried on silently mashing herbs in a pestle as if Dorian had not spoken.

                “ _I said_ Roycen moved.”

                Solas finally approached Roycen’s bedside, passing a thin hand over his patient before flicking the contents of the mortar into the brazier. The fresh, bitter scent of elfroot mingled with aromatic smoke.

                Without warning, Solas took a hold of Dorian’s wrists, casting a paralysing spell which prevented Dorian from pulling away as the elf examined his palms closely, before breaching his collar to rest cool fingers against his pulse. Dorian felt sharp prickles of magic where the elf’s pale fingers touched. He resisted the spell, but was utterly powerless in his weakened state. Dorian channelled fury through his eyes instead while the elf worked. Solas was busy taking long breaths, as if inhaling feedback from the magic.

                Solas’ pale violet eyes narrowed. “You smell of the Fade.”

                It was an accusation. Dorian gritted his teeth, struggling harder against his restrained state.

                “How dare you-” he managed, before Solas stole his ability to speak as well.

                “This will go easier if you tell me the truth. Blink twice if you will agree to this.”

                Dorian blinked. Twice. But he would not forget this insult.

 

                The elf finally released the magic. Dorian resisted the temptation to reach for his staff. Revenge could wait. Humouring the impertinent elf could not.

                Dorian raised his palms slowly in a universal gesture of peace.

                “I will not ask you again," Solas began. "What did you do?”

                “I found him. You found us. Here we all are. Happy, alive. ” Dorian put on his most amiable smile.

                Solas looked as serene as always when he added, “You have both visited the Fade tonight.”

                “What exactly are you suggesting?”

                “You bear traces of the same dream. Yet only you are awake.”

                “And that’s supposed to be _my_ fault?”

                Dorian glowered at the elf with as much intensity as he could muster. The notion that he would do something to intentionally harm Roycen was abominable. Yet he could not admit the whole truth. The Breath of Stasis was a rare and dangerous magic. He was only aware of two previous attempts. The ritual was not without risks, even at this stage.

                Dorian could barely keep track of his half-lies as he answered Solas’ barrage of questions. Eventually Solas was satisfied enough to retreat to his corner once more. The elf worked in blissful silence grinding more sweet-smelling herbs, moving occasionally to scatter the contents into the braziers either side of Roycen’s pallet.

                When Roycen’s eyes twitched for the fourth time, Solas was nowhere to be found. Dorian held his breath, chest painful with hope. Weariness tugged at his own eyelids even as Roycen’s fluttered.

                A steel-clad hand planted on his shoulder, jolting him from his transfixion.

                _Cassandra?_ The Seeker looked a wreck. A rushed dressing was already coming apart at her neck and her usually immaculate armour was dark with blood.

                “Sleep,” Cassandra urged in a voice warmer than she had ever used in his presence.

                Dorian shook his head, letting his gaze fall once more on Roycen’s chest now rising and falling softly beneath the furs.  

                “You have done enough. Let me take up the vigil. I will call for you if anything changes.”

                Dorian couldn’t help scoffing. As if he could sleep...

                “You are not the only one who cares for the Herald.” Cassandra paused as if mulling over her next words. “And we need you too.”

                Dorian almost fell from the crate in shock. Perhaps Cassandra was drunk on healing philtres... The Seeker crouched down so that Dorian could see her scraped face without neglecting his watch over Roycen. There was real concern in her eyes as she asked, “What happened, out in the snow?”

                Dorian sighed, knowing Cassandra was unlikely to leave him be without an answer.

                “I found him half-buried in a drift. Sent the signal. I woke on the way back. I don’t know how long he has been... like this.”

                _A ragged intake of breath._

                _Roycen?_

                “Herald!” Cassandra was closest. It was her hazel eyes Roycen saw first as they fluttered open.

                “This feels familiar,” Roycen said with a crooked smile.

                Cassandra laughed with relief, the beginnings of tears leaking from the corner of her eyes. They threatened to spatter Roycen’s face. Dorian felt a small stab of jealousy amid the swell of relief.

                “Where is...?” The young mage looked about, finding Dorian and attempting to reach out. Only his arms were trapped under the furs. Roycen settled with a contented smile, his face now glowing with warmth.

                It was more than enough for Dorian. But he should be saying something. Anything. He had waited so long... but his throat was so tight and no words seemed fit for the moment. There was nothing to do but grin foolishly back at the young mage he almost lost. When Roycen’s hand did emerge from the corverlets, Dorian held his blissfully warm fingers tightly. If it was too tight, Roycen did not complain.

                Dorian remained at Roycen’s side, although he did regretfully drop Roycen’s hand when others arrived to see their Herald alive and smiling. Visitors came and went as word of the Herald’s recovery spread like wildfire around the camp, spreading embers of hope among the downtrodden survivors. Roycen had time for them all, though he spoke little. More than once Solas suggested that there had been enough visitors for the night, but Roycen was adamant that any who wanted could come. And come they did. Dawn was not far off when Roycen and Dorian were finally alone. Even Solas was in the next tent, now content to check on his patient every hour.

                “We should talk,” Roycen said. “I thought I was in a nightmare. But then you appeared. And you were walking on mud... How were you walking on mud?”

                “I wasn’t,” Dorian replied, mildly amused at Roycen’s choice of question. “Did it suddenly seem like you were in two places at once?”

                “A bit. At first it was a marsh. There were... dead things. In the water. And I was sinking. But then all this stone appeared, like somewhere inside. Candle-lit, but still somehow dark.”

                “Not the best side of the Pavus estate.”

                “That was your _home_?” Roycen sat up as best he could, looking horrified.

                “Oh, only a rarely used space.” Dorian waved nonchalantly, hoping to steer away Roycen’s frown. “You were walking the _Maleficia Conlidam._ ”

                “The what?”

                Dorian coughed. “Put simply, you were dying, in the Fade. It is said that every mage has a unique experience. In your case, death would have been inevitable the moment you fell beneath the mud.”

                “If I was dying, then how could you be there too? Were you dying?”

                Dorian took a moment to think how to best phrase what happened. Ideally, this needed to sound less perilous than it was. But apparently he had paused too long.

                “You put yourself in danger!” Roycen accused.

                “If I didn’t know better, I would say you were doubting my abilities, Roycen Trevelyan.”

                The young mage glowered at him. Dorian continued regardless. “In short, I performed some truly brilliant if somewhat perilous magic which brought us the time we needed. And look!” he gestured grandly. “We’re both alive!”

                “Dorian...” Roycen growled, trying to disentangle himself from the heavy furs around his waist. In this state the young mage was about as threatening as a displeased puppy.

                “So what you’re saying is you could’ve died. But because you didn’t it makes risking your life for me okay?”

                “Most people would be grateful.”

                “I’m not most people.”

                “No. Who could mistake the revered Herald of Andraste for a regular person?”

                “That’s not what I meant!”

                Dorian raised an eyebrow. “No? It seems to me like you would have chosen a very different outcome if you had any say. One which most likely would see you lying dead in the snow!”

                “I wouldn’t have let you risk your life,” Roycen grumbled.

                “What makes you think what I do with my life is your choice to make?”

                Roycen had nothing to say to that, sagging back into the pillows. Defeated. It didn't feel like a victory.

                Dorian tucked sticky strands of hair behind Roycen’s ear. He winced on feeling how hot Roycen’s forehead had become. He should not have exerted himself so.

                “Forgive me. You should rest,” Dorian said as he reluctantly removed his hand.

                “Where are you going?”

                Roycen’s voice was high with surprise on seeing Dorian on his feet. If Dorian was honest, he felt a touch lightheaded after so long sitting.

                “There’s a room I’m told -sorry- _a tent_ with my name on it. Based on your level of snarkiness, I deem there little risk of you dropping into a coma.” Dorian turned his back on the now slack jawed mage.

                “ _Wait_.”

                Dorian turned back, not bothering to hide the victory in his expression.

                “Thank you,” Roycen said. “Not just for the magic. But for staying. After.”

                Dorian hummed in approval, waiting, hoping.

                “Will you stay? I understand if you don’t want to...”

                “How could I refuse?”

                “It would be simpler if you just said yes,” Roycen smirked. “So... will you stay?”

                “ _Semper, Amatus_.”

                “What does that mean?” Roycen asked sleepily against Dorian’s shirt.

                “It means yes,” Dorian said, wrapping his arms around Roycen's chest. _But it meant so much more._


End file.
